


Year of the Bug: Side A

by ScumdogSnev



Series: Year of the Bug [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Infection, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-28 20:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScumdogSnev/pseuds/ScumdogSnev
Summary: Kowalski and Vecchio return alone to Chicago a few months after having gone undercover. They try to figure themselves out again and put their lives back together while avoiding each other like the plague. When separate yet interrelated missions and a fateful summer day force their paths to converge, however, the Rays are back on the road: not only to expose the conspiracy they've stumbled upon and save countless lives, but also to know why their mutual best friend from the North is linked to it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jesus, I don't know where to start with this. I'll try to keep this brief.
> 
> My first dS fic, first fic with more than 5k words that's finished, first fic I ever wrote for a challenge and first fic I ever needed a beta for.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who was in this year's dSBB chats and the brand ass-spankin' new due South Discord server! Your support really helped me for all those times that I felt like dropping the story.
> 
> I'd love to be able to call out all of the above, but that would be a shitload of people. But if there's anyone I'm especially thankful for, it's verushka70. One hell of a beta for sure. It's a shame that we couldn't ride out the whole journey together, but thank you so much for everything! You've taught me so much and this fic would be absolute dogshit if it weren't for you.
> 
> I'm not expecting any new Ray/Ray shippers out of this, but I hope that you enjoy what I've written. This shit took forever. But it's a good forever.

“Help me! Someone, please help—”

Kowalski hacks through ice cold water, his lungs too full to spit out the excess liquid pooling in his mouth. The already blurry sun is searing his retinas. No matter how hard he struggles, he can’t turn away from the light.

“Fraser! Dief! Anyone! Please!”

A guttural squeak rips itself from his throat as he feels blood flowing from his nose. The taste of the fluid mixed with the water makes Kowalski want to throw up. He feels himself going numb fast. Breathing hurts him and blinking even more so.

“No! I don’t wanna die!”

The world’s going dark. He’s about to go blind. He’s going fucking blind as he’s about to drown alone in the middle of nowhere. The hot tears streaming down his cheeks feel like mercury scorching his skin.

“Fraser! Fraser!”

His name is a mantra at this point, a name to cling to for comfort as he always does. In the back of his mind, however, Kowalski knows that there's no way he can save him in time; he’s too far gone from solid ground. Despite this, a part of him wants to believe that Fraser will always be there for him; that as long as they’re partners, nothing can stop him.

But now he can't hear anything anymore, for his eardrums have burst. He squeals at the mercy of a clear sky as he feels himself going down. Deep. Deeper…

* * *

It’s not without a gasp and a struggle for air that Kowalski’s brought back to the waking world. The blond hears the humming of power lines muffling whatever song’s playing on the radio. Something about if he had her love, if he heard the chorus right. Kowalski mentally notes that summer of ‘99 in Chicago still feels like rotting in Hell.

He’d gladly go back to the Territories and actually drown himself just to get away from it all, but this is his life. He’s now stuck in the real one that waited for him while he latched on to someone else’s with disturbing ease. Kowalski knows that he has to get back in touch with his old self, slowly but surely shedding what doesn’t belong in the process. At least, that’s what his psychologist suggested to him a few weeks ago. Easier said than done for a guy like him.

“Shed… Shed? Shit.”

Kowalski tries to get up from the couch, but his right arm sharply reminds him that it’s numb, causing him to tumble to the floor. He drops the can of coke he used to cool himself earlier to a sticky mess. Groaning, he drags his overheating body to where his new aquarium is, right next to Turtle’s terrarium. He kneels before the aquarium and sighs at what he sees.

As he expected, Turtle 2 is still shedding from his shell. Kowalski’s been trying his best to properly raise his new friend, but hasn’t been able to give him the attention he deserves. His job’s been more demanding than usual lately, so caring for his critters had to take a backseat.

One of the few theoretical aspects that he remembers from his time at the academy is that summer is the season with the highest crime rate; higher temperatures frustrate people and make them cast away their inhibitions. With this triple-digit weather, Kowalski would have certainly racked up a body count of his own if he had even less self-control. He watches his turtles do their thing, hoping that they’ll calm him down.

Kowalski's yanked back to reality when he hears the phone ring. After loudly cursing the world, he cleans himself up before leaving. He figures that they’ll expect him to show up whether he answers or not. Besides, it’s not like he has a choice anymore.

* * *

The 32nd precinct is considered to be one of the better maintained stations of the Chicago Police Department. The food is better than what one expects from such a place and the bathrooms are usually immaculate. It’s a little out of the way to access compared to the 27th precinct, but that’s nothing compared to Kowalski’s grievances about the place. His main problem is how freaky all his coworkers are. They’re not Stepford clones or anything, but everyone fits so neatly into archetypes that would be right at home in Office Space. It all makes him feel like Dilbert with a badge and a gun that somehow isn’t always pointed at his colleagues.

Kowalski eyes the calendar on the wall; it’s only July 9th. Looks like Illinois won’t be freed from the ninth circle any time soon. Shaking his head, he pours himself an espresso shot, not noticing his partner edging towards him. When Kowalski acknowledges his presence, he looks him in the eyes and downs the shot in one gulp. Screwing with Pinkert’s mind is one of the scarce sources of fun in his life nowadays.

“Uh-uh! I’m not falling for that again! I’m starting to know you and your habits like the palm of my hand, Kowalski.”

“Sure, Pinkert.”

Eric Pinkert is the squad’s resident nerd and the one who gifted Turtle 2 to Kowalski after solving his first case with the precinct. Kowalski feels like he pissed off several gods to be partnered up with him, but can’t complain too much about working with the precinct’s resident prodigy.

“You should start adding milk to your coffee,” he chimes. “Maybe some sugar, too. God knows how bitter you are even before your daily dose.”

Kowalski slams the cup down on the counter, ignoring the injury he just made to his wrist. “Move,” he says, pushing past Pinkert on the way to the lieutenant’s office. “And Pinky?”

“Please don’t call me that,” murmurs the younger cop.

“What?”

“Nothing. You wanted to tell me something, Kowalski?”

“Yeah. It’s ‘the back of my hand’, not ‘the palm of my hand’. Unless you’re trying to tell me you’re lonely, too,” he quips with a snort.

Pinkert’s freckled face briefly scrunches in discomfort before his usual smile comes back. “Oh, okay. Thanks!”

Kowalski leans on the window next to the office door and waits for the lieutenant to finish whatever discussion she’s in. He wonders how Fraser managed to correct people without being a dick. Maybe it’s because he never came off as a sex-crazed vocabulary Nazi, for starters.

* * *

Vecchio, Huey and Dewey are lounging on the floor of the latter’s apartment; Huey would be caught dead with Vecchio living at his place, so he pushed the burden onto his partner like a best friend shouldn't do. In fact, only Huey and Dewey are on the floor. God forbid Vecchio gets his white and blue hibiscus pattern shirt dirty on some peasant’s carpet. He sips from his can of Miller Lite before he speaks up.

“Out of all the movies you could have rented, you go for Fast Times at Ridgemont High?”

“Hey, nothing wrong with going back to the classics,” says Huey, still looking at the screen. “It’s still funny after all these years.”

“I’m sure it is. Wait, weren’t we in our twenties when this came out? What the hell were you doing watching a teen flick back then?”

Dewey looks over to Vecchio, his lips curving into a smug smile upon seeing his irritation. “Hey, check this out,” he says, nudging his partner. “Sourpuss over here’s only moody because we’re not watching some gory mob flick. That’s it, right?”

Vecchio wryly smiles back. “Funny. I bet Rodney Dangerfield himself wishes he was as witty as you.” He yawns before getting up from the couch and heading to the kitchen.

“You never told me he was this bitchy, Huey. I mean, I know you said he’s testy, but…”

“But?”

“Boobs.”

Huey raises an eyebrow. “What?” He follows Dewey’s mesmerized gaze to the TV and sees Phoebe Cates in her red two-piece swimsuit. “Oh. Right.”

Meanwhile, Vecchio’s pouring himself a glass of rum; cheap beer’s not giving him what he needs today. He sets the bottle on the counter and stares at his drink instead of, well, drinking it.

He doesn’t remember it being this bad. He’d told himself that he’d quit after the Langoustini stint. This was only supposed to be a temporary coping mechanism for when larger shit was hitting the fan, not a permanent one for every pellet. Vecchio wonders why Stella still bothers to keep in touch with him as he finishes his drink in one gulp.

He glances at the living room and sees Dewey quickly turning away from him. Vecchio doesn’t care. In fact, he drinks some more rum straight from the bottle just to screw him over; Dewey being a prick’s a good enough reason to spite him. He’s not even supposed to be here. Vecchio would rather hit rock bottom out in the open than at Dewey’s place. He feels himself willing his body to head to the door.

“I’m leaving,” announces Vecchio, his stride offbeat; Dewey’s quick to get up and hold him still.

“Hey, not like that, you are. You’re staying here today.”

“Like hell, I am. So damn sick of you two…”

Vecchio groans when he sees Huey walking towards him, joining in the noble effort of not letting him black out and fry like an egg on white-hot pavement.

“Two things, Vecchio. One, I don’t think your family would appreciate seeing you like this. And two—” Huey cringes at the strong smell of Vecchio’s breath as the latter giggles into his shoulder. He clears his throat before finishing his statement. “…Two, there’s no way that Kowalski’s gonna let you sleep over at his place.”

“Come on, I’m not that desperate for a place to stay. I can just hail a cab and head to a motel. Hey, wait a minute.”

Huey and Dewey carefully watch him straighten himself back up, never loosening their grip on him.

“If I’m here right now… Guess I must really be that desperate, huh?”

The duo lets out a simultaneous “goddammit” as they drag their cackling friend to the guest room.


	2. Chapter 2

Kowalski opens the door to the office and is silently greeted by Lieutenant Laura Halloran with her usual self-assured nod. He nods back and tries to contain his scowl when he sees his psychologist sitting next to her; nevertheless, she gives her patient a warm smile.

“Sit, Kowalski,” orders his boss. He obeys, not even daring to break eye contact with her. The first time he ever looked away from Halloran when she talked to him was the last time he ever did. All she needed to do was raise her voice to put the fear of God in him.

Kowalski sighs. “It’s the phone thing, isn’t it?”

“As much as that annoys me, that’s not your biggest problem right now.”

He smirks to himself. She doesn’t even know the half of it.

“See, your psychologist told me that you’ve been a no-show for three weeks straight. We talked about that just before you got here and decided it’d be better if she dropped by every Tuesday instead.”

The blond’s brows furrow as he fails to keep his hands from gripping his thighs. He’s a chameleon, after all, not a groundhog. That’s best left to the other Ray, the one who made an art out of hiding in the other side of the country.

“Don’t worry, Ray,” says Doctor Visser. “She’s already covered the bills for your missed days. I understand that it’s a busy season for you, but there’s still some ground for us to cover. You’ve been doing a great job already, so don’t slow down! I’ll see you at four thirty next Tuesday, alright?”

Kowalski nods once again before the lieutenant dismisses him. Stepping out, he sees Pinkert talking to some of his colleagues in the hall. He pats him on the back as he walks past him.

“Come on, Pinky, let’s get out of here. I’m hungry.”

“But I already had lunch about an hour ago—”

The spiky-haired cop suddenly turns around, scaring Pinkert. “I said come on, let’s get out of here!”

His partner scurries to his side as they walk towards the exit. He bets that the two people that Pinkert was talking to just now are gossiping about him again. Once the antisocial freak of the office, always the antisocial freak of the office.

* * *

“Hey, Vecchio. Wake up.”

Dewey repeats himself as he tries to nudge him awake, but nothing gives. He then kicks the bed and gleefully watches him tumble to the floor.

“Agh! Dammit!”

The former detective rubs his sore forehead. He uses the edge of the bed as leverage to get up, but only manages to grip the blanket before falling again. Dewey walks over to Vecchio, extending his hand to him.

“You’re only helping me out now?”

“Couldn’t waste another opportunity to see you suffer, pal.”

“God, and I thought Gardino was a sadist,” mumbles Vecchio, his voice still gruff from having slept. “It’s good to know that all three ducks are psychopaths.”

“Come on, Scrooge, that’s enough,” says Dewey as he helps his pseudo-friend up. “Besides, you had it coming for hogging my Bacardi.”

Vecchio gives him a sardonic smirk. “What do you want from me, anyway? It’s a Friday afternoon. Go to a party or something and leave me alone.”

“Actually, I’m the one organizing a party here,” he declares.

“Congratulations, you want a medal?”

Dewey rolls his eyes. “Shut up, asshole. Anyway, someone’s here to see you.”

“Who?” Vecchio’s perplexed, thinking that no rational person would want to talk to him these days.

“I don’t know. Some old guy got here a few minutes ago and told me that he needs to talk to you. Look, just get him off my back, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way…”

Rubbing his eyes with his wrist, he fishes for breath mints in his pants and pops one. As he enters the living room, the guest immediately strides over to him. Vecchio can’t bring himself to speak; he's not intimidated by the elderly anymore, but this guy's different.

The two are now locked in an uncomfortable gaze. The old man looks at Vecchio in a way that makes the latter feel like he’s being dissected. Vecchio feels like this man can somehow see the ugliness that’s been germinating within him for the last two years. Yet, it’s this ugliness that led him to master the skill of being unreadable in dire straits, so he runs with it. He refuses to back down to anyone, especially to some stranger in a ball cap who thinks he’s got him all figured out.

“I’ve heard that you’re a man of your word.” The man’s voice is strong; stronger than his body would suggest. “I can trust you, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Huey and Dewey are shocked by this flicker of resolve from the man who was a pathetic mess just a few hours ago. Even Vecchio himself didn’t see it coming.

“I need your help, Detective.”

“What for?”

“Excuse me, but Detective Vecchio retired a few months ago,” interrupts Huey. “But my partner and I are more than happy to help—”

“Shut it. That partner of yours told me that this guy needs to talk to me, not a couple of failed comedians with badges. Gacy had a better chance of making people laugh than you two. I bet you wouldn't have been smart enough to even catch him in the first place."

The older gentleman lets out a hearty laugh as the Duck Boys are too stunned to think of a comeback.

“I like you. You’ve got resolve. You get straight to the point. You know what you’re worth and you’re an ass about it, too.” The guest stands on his toes to whisper in Vecchio’s ear. “No wonder you had the underworld by the balls.”

The stranger hears Vecchio’s pulse quicken before he’s shoved away from him. He laughs some more when he sees his appointed benefactor power walk to the door.

“Let’s go. Tell those two that no one’s coming to their party.”

“No need to tell them what they already know, son.” The man isn’t offended, but instead intrigued when he notices that Vecchio’s leaving him behind on purpose.

The man formerly known as Armando Langoustini makes a mad dash for the elevator, but suddenly stops in his tracks when he reaches it. He’s not about to pussy out on a guy he just gave his word to three minutes ago. His pants end in a sigh as his anxiety finally settles in. No one outside the 27th precinct is supposed to know about this side of him. Vecchio already hates his client and he doesn’t even know his name. It takes all of his willpower to stop himself from slumping down the wall in despair.

* * *

Pinkert almost gags at the sight of Kowalski eating his pastrami sandwich. He’s chomping loudly, licking his fingers, wiping them on his jeans and looking around like he hopes no one’s staring at him. It’s a small diner, so of course everyone’s staring at him.

“You’re, uh… You really love pastrami sandwiches, don’t you?”

“Nah, I hate ‘em,” mumbles Kowalski as he’s eating.

“So why are you eating one?”

Because Kowalski doesn’t know any better. Eating this slop of shit every time he went to this place was routine. It was never about him wanting to drink a cream soda and eat one of those Montreal smoked meat sandwiches that Fraser told him about once. It always had to be what Vecchio ate whenever he went there. A bottle of iced tea and that godforsaken pastrami sandwich. What the hell kind of cop drinks iced tea?

His mind fires more questions at him. How did people buy into some Pole in biker threads pretending to be an Italian who wears clothes more expensive than both of their salaries combined? Whose idea was it to have him take on this undercover gig and why was he so thankful for it back then?

“None of your business, Pink. Oh, and the guy who invented iced tea should be shot in the face.”

Kowalski looks up at Pinkert, expecting to see him take offense at a fellow cop talking about blowing someone’s face off. Instead, he himself is offended at the sight of him grinning at a crocheted wolf plush in his hand. A tag hangs from one of its hind paws, reading _Thank you kindly for your donation!_

He sneers at his young partner. “You seriously bought one of those things?”

“Hey, they’re for a good cause,” argues Pinkert, his mood now lighter from looking at his Diefenbaker doll. “This month, the White Wolf Society’s apparently giving their merch revenue to a couple of youth homes in the city. I think that’s really noble of them.”

“Yeah? Well, they’re still freaks to me.”

“Not this again, Kowalski…”

After taking a swig of iced tea, Kowalski gets on his soapbox. “Look, they walk around in these fake vinyl Serges in the dead of summer and help out people who never even asked for it in the first place. They keep talking about how great he was and what he would have done about this and that. They hang around the consulate all the time and sell their weird crap that’s made to look like Fraser and Dief for all these vague causes—”

“So you don’t like that they’re trying to pay tribute to your old partner? You should know more than anyone else that he was a great guy! Kind, humble, authentic…”

“Yeah, everything they’re not!” Kowalski takes a deep breath and looks out the window. “If they really wanted to be like him, they wouldn’t just hold doors for people. They wouldn’t try to make him a brand. They’d go out and talk to these kids. They’d buy them food, get them clean syringes, try to figure out what’s wrong with them. You know, see if they can get them back home to their parents without a hitch. That’s what Fraser would do.”

“But don’t those youth homes do the same thing?”

The blond looks at him, bewildered. “Are you— Oh, right. Forgot you’re book smart and street dumb.”

“Excuse me!?”

“Listen, those guys don’t do jack for them besides putting a roof over their heads. They treat them like crap and don’t do anything to help them get better and leave. As long as those poor kids keep winding up in their beds, no one asks any questions and they stay in business.”

“Look, maybe the WWS is just trying its best to fill in that Mountie shaped hole in whatever way it can. And you know what? You’re doing the same thing by trying to make me someone I’m not and can’t possibly be!”

Pinkert’s sudden mood change startles his partner.

“You don’t think I’m just gonna keep taking crap from you, do you? How are we supposed to be partners when I can’t even tell what you’re thinking half of the time? I’m doing my best to get along with you and know you better, but you always push me away! Don’t you want friends? You know, actual people who love you and are willing to support you without having to fuck you?”

Kowalski’s surprised to hear his seemingly innocent colleague swear. His lips then curve into a mischievous smile. “How do you know about that?” he quietly asks. “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. I could make you respect me in a different kind of way.”

“You’re sick, Kowalski!” Pinkert’s voice cracks as he continues to yell. “I’ve never met someone as vulgar as you before! Why would you— I-I can’t do this. I’m hailing a cab. Maybe it’s time for you to talk to your shrink,” he says before getting up.

“Maybe it’s time for you to stop making a scene and get a life. And I told you already, I don’t like people who get in my space and try to get me all figured out.”

He stifles a laugh as his twentysomething partner grumbles more profanities on his way out. So he’s being a bigger horny asshole than usual. No big deal. It’s not like anyone he cares about is here to chastise him for it. Kowalski reaches for the newspaper on the other side of the table.

Incidentally, the paper makes for a great readable shield to put up to his face when he sees Vecchio and a man he’s never seen before enter the diner. Even with his disguise on, he still feels Vecchio staring at him. Maybe Vecchio thinks he looks stupid or worse, like a coward. He feels sick to his stomach, knowing damn well that the pastrami isn’t to blame.

Make that one person he more or less cares about.

* * *

Vecchio sits on a stool by the counter. His eyes shift from the old man ordering a milkshake to Kowalski’s laughable attempt to stay hidden. Laughable, but also frustrating. He remembers him and Fraser leaving him on good terms, so why is Kowalski doing this? Vecchio could use a friend right now; he has a feeling that Kowalski could use one, too.

Still, none of this hurts him. Nothing hurts him anymore. That’s what he’s been telling himself long before Vegas, even before he met Fraser. The world has proved him wrong time and again, but now he’s put up walls that even a Russian nuke couldn’t blast away.

“Banana shake, son?”

Vecchio’s brought back to Earth with an invigoratingly painful pressure on his hand. He looks at it and sees the milkshake cooling the skin below his knuckles.

“No,” he answers flatly, his eyes never leaving the drink. He doesn’t need to look at his client to know that he’s got that smug smile on his face again. Vecchio refuses to even look at him; that tone in his voice is already driving him up the wall.

“You’re sweating like hell. This summer’s a bad one for sure. A nice, cool shake will do you some good, Lan—”

Vecchio clutches the man’s wrist with the speed of a viper. His thumb traces circles on his companion’s carpal tunnel while the milkshake is in his other hand. They lock eyes, Vecchio relishing the opportunity to take the lead in their little game.

“Now, I don’t think you’ve told me _your_ name yet.”

“…Y-you’re good. I haven’t seen skills like that since—”

Vecchio digs his thumb into his client’s median nerve, the sight of his rictus giving him a rush. The fact that no one is noticing his spontaneous act of violence turns that rush into a surge of electricity.

“What’s your name?” asks Vecchio, his voice slightly breathy despite trying to conceal his exhilaration. He lets the man’s wrist go when he hears him struggle to make a “k” sound.

“Corporal Joseph… Lagacé,” he gasps. “Air Force… Used to be… SIGINT analyst… Shit!”

“Sounds like you could use some banana flavored goodness, Joe,” teases Vecchio. “Want it back, army man?”

He nudges the milkshake closer to Lagacé when he sees that he’s still trying to recover. The man eagerly drinks from the straw while Vecchio pats his back.

“I expected a man like you to be more respectful to his elders,” says Lagacé between sips. “Damn near disabled my arm with that move. You’re lucky I’m not in service anymore.”

Vecchio stretches after cracking his own knuckles. He’s got something good going on between them right now; he’ll only ask him what he wants to know later. “So what can I do you for, Corporal?”

The ex-airman crosses his arms. “I can’t tell you that here. What I can tell you now, though, is that I need your protection.”

Both men look around the diner; there aren’t too many patrons anymore, save for Kowalski on one side of the place and three people on the other.

Vecchio waves to the server. “Hey, you! I’ll have a bottle of iced tea.” He ignores her eye-rolling when she gives him his beverage. “Yeah, I can see why you’d want that. I’ve read the papers. Looks like crime’s a dime a dozen this summer.”

“Tell me about it. Hell, the cops are giving even less of a damn about proper procedure than usual.”

Vecchio and Lagacé hear paper being crumpled and boots stomping on ceramic tile. The latter finds himself face to face with an irate blond sporting some kind of gelled up bedhead. He knows that the nineties have proven to be a strange decade, so he doesn’t question the man’s fashion sense.

“You wanna say that again?”

“Move along, Kowalski,” says Vecchio as he sets aside some cash for his drink. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“No, I think it does, so shut up. And you, who the hell do you think you are? You think we just sit at our desks scratching our asses all day? This isn’t easy for us, neither!”

The corporal gets up, his mood matching the detective’s own. “You all dropped the ball when it came to those Boone kids. I’ve never seen a fuck-up by law enforcement this bad before.”

Kowalski tenses up; that was his case.

It happened on the evening of June 26th: a break and enter in an apartment not too far from Union Park, followed by the stabbings of both tenants. These tenants were Trevor and Cynthia Boone, a twentysomething married couple. They were both UIC grad students; he was studying microbiology in the hopes of being a virologist and she wanted to be a military historian. None of them worked part-time, save for interning as research assistants.

He and Pinkert looked over the facts of the case again and again. They questioned friends, family, neighbors and colleagues alike, but nothing gave; the couple got along well with just about everyone they met. In spite of his sharp intellect, Pinkert was stumped by the case; even Kowalski’s street savvy wasn’t enough to crack it. All seemed lost until the boys remembered that there was a string of hate crimes that took place in the area that same week. A neo-Nazi group had broken into several apartments in the building and assaulted people; some were severely injured and others even died from their injuries. All of the victims were African-American, just like the Boones.

“You alright, Kowalski? You’re pale,” states Vecchio, a hint of concern on his face. The corporal doesn’t say anything, smirking as he observes Kowalski slowly backing away. Vecchio gets up to approach his would-be doppelganger, reaching for his trembling arm.

“Hey. Hey, Stan…”

Vecchio’s attempt to comfort him is rewarded with an elbow to the nose and a hoarse “Don’t touch me!” He puts a tissue to his nose with one hand while gripping the counter for balance with the other. He’s so out of it that he doesn’t see Kowalski storm off nor hear the old man telling him that his iced tea is getting warm. All he can do is stare ahead and wonder how things got even worse between them.


	3. Chapter 3

Kowalski sits in his car, watching the world go by as he tries to level his breathing. His attempt to do so goes to hell the second he sees some faux Frasers walk down the street, so he lays back and closes his eyes. This doesn’t work either, because his mind now finds it easier to press play on the paused tape that is his flashback.

The Boone case compared to the mob attacks had just enough similarities to pass off as one of them, but also had some key differences that weren’t unnoticeable. Both he and his partner wrote them down the night they discovered this. It was also that night of July 1st — Canada Day — when Kowalski learned something about Eric Pinkert. He knew that he prided himself on being the gifted kid of the precinct, but what he didn’t know is that he’d do anything to maintain the prestige that came with his role. As for Pinkert himself, he knew that Kowalski would do anything to keep him around, which led to him making a pact with the detective: they’d close the case the next day, saying that the Boones’ deaths were part of the neo-Nazi attacks. Although Kowalski was satisfied with his 300 dollar bribe, he wasn’t able to get a single second of sleep, knowing that Fraser would have been very, very ashamed of him if he were there.

The detective feels himself drifting into a light sleep. He’s still deep in that lake, but harsh sunlight shines through the water, giving him a clearer view of what’s higher up. Squinting from the brightness, he sees a figure with broad shoulders and a wide brimmed hat observing him from above. Kowalski doesn’t know whether to be relieved or afraid. He sees the figure tapping at the water, but the sound is less of a “splish splash splosh” and more of a “knock knock knock”, making him feel like a goldfish in a pet shop.

The tapping continues, waking Kowalski up. He straightens up his damp body and sees a WWS member on the other side of the window. The fanboy makes a praying motion, followed by a circular one with his index and middle fingers pressed against his thumb. _Please roll down your window!_ Kowalski, stone-faced, mimes the man’s motions, minus the index finger and thumb. _Please fuck off!_ He finds satisfaction in seeing the pretend Mountie’s serene smile wiped off his sweat-drenched face, adding an extra wave as he watches him walk away. He profits from his immature high to drive back to the station and tell Lieutenant Halloran that those discrepancies he found are…

* * *

“…why I want to reopen the Boone case.”

The clock in Halloran’s office strikes three. Kowalski’s standing in front of her desk, his heart pounding away like an Amen Break as he sees a tight-lipped Pinkert from the corner of his eye. The lieutenant tucks some of her auburn curls behind her pierced ear, her gray eyes shifting their focus from a photo of her daughter to the officer before her.

“I thought we put this case to rest, Detective,” she tells him with the faintest hint of impatience. “I understand that their stab wounds are fewer and neater than those of the other victims, but why does that warrant another investigation?”

Kowalski licks his lips. “The other victims were undergrads. What happened to the Boones wasn’t just a hate crime. Hell, I don’t think it was even a hate crime at all. There’s no way those neo-Nazi guys did them in. Gangs like them aren’t that smart.”

“What makes you say that!?” Pinkert’s outburst gets their attention.

“Steady on, Pinkert,” she warns him.

“It doesn’t matter that they were graduate students! What, do you think they got stabbed a little less than the others just because they’re smarter than the average…” He gulps as he realizes what he was about to say.

“I never said anything like that, Pink.” Typical paranoid white kid from rural Illinois. Kowalski chuckles to himself before getting back in the game. “Listen, I’ve gotta ask you something. How would the perps have known that those two were grad students?”

“They could have known them personally.”

“But we all know that’s not the case. We interviewed everyone, remember?” Kowalski relaxes when he notices his partner fidgeting and his boss taking interest in his explanation. He saunters towards the young officer. “So let’s get this straight. The fact that the Boones weren’t killed in the same way as the other victims means this wasn’t just some hate crime. At the same time, no one they knew is likely to have murdered them, which means that the perps didn’t know they were grads.”

Kowalski’s riding high on his second wind. He hasn’t felt this good in a long time. Everyone’s right where he wants them to be and he’s still making sense. He’s got this. He’s fucking got this. Kowalski pulls the chair from which Pinkert was in and drags it to the middle of the room, sitting down with his arms draped over its back. He peeks at Pinkert rubbing his sore ass before he moves on.

“The reports on the neo-Nazi killings say that the victims’ apartments were trashed, but I remember the Boones’ place not looking too bad. Nothing went missing, just some open drawers and closets. Almost like they were looking for something specific. Those other guys had most of their stuff stolen, so this case doesn’t check out with the killings, neither.”

“Not bad, Kowalski,” compliments Halloran. “I think I know where you’re going with this, but I’d rather hear the conclusion from your own mouth than mine.”

That’s it. He’s got his fish all huddled up and ready for the kill.

“So if they were grads, but no one cared about their intern stuff… And the killers were looking for something specific at their place…”

Hook.

“Tell me, Pinky, don’t grad students usually work on those big papers and do research for them?”

Pinkert sneers at him. “You mean a thesis, Kowalski?”

“Yeah, that.”

Line.

“Those two had to be working on something together. They must have had something in common with their theth— Seesis— Whatever, their research must have overlapped somewhere and someone in the know didn’t like what the result was gonna be.”

“So you want to reopen the case because you believe that someone outside of the university murdered those two for their research?” reiterates Halloran.

Kowalski nods without a shred of doubt. Still, he taps the back of his chair in anticipation.

She smiles. “Sounds like a plan, boys. You two do what you have to do, but I want this case wrapped up for good by next Friday, alright?”

Sinker.

“Yes, sir!”

“Ma’am, Kowalski. Women don’t usually like being called ‘sir’.”

Sure, unless you’re the Ice Queen. Kowalski briefly wonders how Thatcher’s been as he and Pinkert leave their boss’ office.

His partner’s pouting, but he can choke on his breaded fish stick as far as he’s concerned. Life’s not fair, but if there’s an opportunity for justice to be served, any cop with a conscience would jump on it in a heartbeat. Kowalski wants to believe that he’s that kind of cop, let alone a good person.

* * *

Vecchio and Lagacé go back to Dewey’s apartment, the former unlocking the door using the spare key.

“So you’re saying that you’ve seen me in Vegas before?”

“That’s right, at the Palazzo,” clarifies the corporal, entering before Vecchio. “Obviously, you were still in wiseguy mode. Blondes clinging to your arms, muscle following your every move and that fake little mustache below that damn honker of yours.”

“Don’t make fun of my nose,” groans the ex-mobster as he follows suit. Closing the door behind him, he walks past Huey arranging sets of drinks in various coolers and Dewey vacuuming the living room carpet.

“Oh, come on! I just cleaned that spot!” whines Dewey as Vecchio and his client walk over the carpet and into the guest room.

Vecchio sits down on the edge of the bed. “So you recognized me somewhere else because of my nose, then.”

“Exactly. Used to see you and your lady down at Miami Beach a few months back,” explains Lagacé as he gets himself comfortable in a nearby chair. I tried to get a hold of you, but you were all over the place.”

“Look, how do you know who I am?”

“Well, sonny, I overheard you and Stella at a seafood place one night. You were talking about ‘your old life’. Did some research on the computer when I got back home and learned a lot about you.”

“You…? Right, you said you used to be a signals analyst. Of course you’d know how to do creepy shit like that,” says Vecchio, his voice trailing off. “So why do you want me to protect you?”

“Because I’ve got something to say. Something that’s gonna put my life on the line.”

The atmosphere becomes as tense as it was when they first met, Lagacé staring at Vecchio so hard that his look might as well bore holes in his face.

“There’s a reason why I straightened out that punk back at the diner. You remember that Boone story from last week, right?”

“Yeah. Weren’t they some of the victims of that neo-Nazi spree?”

“Nope. That’s law enforcement lying to commoners as usual. There’s more to what happened to those poor kids.”

“Listen, not every case is made completely public,” explains the former detective. “There are always gonna be facts that are held back from civilians. That’s just the way the police works.”

“Don’t give me that ‘that’s just the way the police works’ horseshit, you condescending hog.”

Vecchio doesn’t say anything. This guy’s obviously not screwing around, so he decides to let him go off.

“Look, I’m not talking held back. I mean that the police modified the facts of the case. I should know. That girl was one of my buddies’ nieces. Hell, she’d just finished interviewing me about—”

The corporal stops himself when he sees Vecchio put his hand up. The latter sneaks towards the door and gently twists the knob. He scans the hallway, making sure it’s clear before checking the living room, bedroom and kitchen. Huey and Dewey are nowhere in sight, but the vacuum’s still plugged in. Vecchio feels a shiver run down his spine as he walks back to the guest room.

“Keep your voice down, alright? They’re not there, but…”

“I get ya,” answers Lagacé. “I know how this stuff works. Now get over here and sit tight. This is gonna take a while. Got some beer?”

“Oh, do I,” says Vecchio with a smile. This shouldn’t be too bad.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days after getting Halloran’s okay, Kowalski finally gets his hands on the Boones’ notebooks and cassettes. He’s happy that Pinkert’s not with him tonight; the young man claimed that he had to attend a LAN party held by some friends he hadn’t seen since moving to Chicago. Kowalski has no idea what a land party is, nor does he care to know what it is. All that matters is that he can spend a quiet afternoon at home analyzing the deceased’s research without having to hear his partner whine about their spoiled pact.

After eating some leftover pork buns, he’s sitting on the couch in his underwear, a rerun of some sitcom quietly playing on TV as he lays the goods on the table. Kowalski pops an interview tape into his cassette player and slips on his headphones, his pen and notepad at the ready. After an hour and a half of careful reading, listening and note-taking, he finds himself feeling tired. Two thirty minute tapes and roughly one-third of Trevor’s detailed notes wasn’t giving him much to work with besides old men ranting about “those goddamn Reds” and margin blurbs about weaponized viruses developed during World War II. It’s a start, but not enough to provoke a deliberate double homicide.

Kowalski notices that he’s thirsty. He shakes his head as he walks to the sink. After drinking a glass of water and feeding his shelled sweeties, he takes a nap in his bed. One watery nightmare later, Kowalski goes back to the living room to get the job done. Before he knows it, it’s nine in the evening and he’s got himself one hell of a narrative.

It would seem that the Boones found out around mid-June that their topics of interest intersected, because it was by then that they started to focus their attention on the creation and use of bioweapons during the Cold War. Kowalski knows that the States are no strangers to suspicious military tactics, but what really threw him in for a loop is how often they depended on Canada for their research. He skipped the political and historical details, as well as the guinea pig horror stories (and felt his stomach churn when he remembered the time he thought he was being gassed) to get to where he is now. The last tabs in both books read _BIODEFENSE_.

Kowalski looks at the typed label on the final cassette in chronological order. _Cynthia Neill-Boone — Interview with Cpl. Joseph Lagacé, Electronic Signals Intelligence Analyst — 06/23/1999._ He switches out the last tape in his player with this one and presses play.

“Oh God,” groans the blond about ten seconds in, recognizing the man’s voice. The corporal starts talking about things he’s already read about earlier, so Kowalski takes a look at the biodefense sections in the notebooks while waiting for new info to come through.

_**I** nitiative_  
_for the_  
_**M** ass_  
_**A** lteration_  
_of_  
_**G** enomes_  
_of_  
_**H** umanoid_  
_**O** rganisms_

_11/XX/1957 — 02/XX/1958_

“What the fuck…?” Kowalski murmurs. He’s sweating, yet feels his blood go cold. He starts to jot down what he sees and hears.

The tape goes on. “Back in winter of ‘57, Air Force sent me all the way up to Canada to pick up Soviet signals coming ‘round from the North. Told me I was gonna be one of the first to work for something called the North American Air Defense Command with a bunch of Canadians.”

_Ran in parallel with Operation Whitecoat as a genetic engineering focused supplement to the program._

“It sounded fancy, so I went for it. Too bad they didn’t tell me that I was gonna freeze my ass off on some island near the North Pole! Jesus, my post wasn’t even close to running along the DEW Line…”

_Clandestine development of genetically modified virus (carrying non-communicable disease) for troop fortification. Cognitive and perceptual enhancements via cell alteration._

“…So we were stuck in the middle of nowhere with below average equipment and facilities, shit weather, weird animals, military guys from Canada and back home, unhinged meteorologists and Eskimos… What? Fine, _Inuits._ Happy?”

_Planned transmission via random selection of vaccines(?); virus projected to not inhibit effects of any given vaccine. Eventual extension to civilian testing?_

Kowalski nearly breaks the pause button after yanking his headphones off his ears. He clamps his eyes shut as he pants, grasping at the sofa cushions. His heartbeat drowns out the noises of the TV and of cars passing by outside.

This all has to be some kind of elaborate prank. That or he’s finally losing his mind. He stumbles to the sink for another glass of water, but spills some on his clothes as he tries to drink it. Slamming it on the counter in frustration, he figures that it might not be just his throat that’s in need of an ice cool stream.

It didn’t take long for Doctor Visser to notice his anger issues. She advised him at some point to displace them on inanimate objects. Kowalski tries this out by tossing his boxers and shirt against the wall. He’s surprised at his contentment when his clothes not only hit his target, but also plop into his laundry basket. Like with all his little victories, he tries to ride its high for as long as he can. He saunters to the bathroom and does a flourish before hopping in the shower.

Kowalski hollers when the cold water hits his skin, driving the sweat off his body. It hurts so bad, but feels so good, the sensation confusing his already frazzled self so much that he starts singing a tune he heard earlier.

“Scar tissue that I wish you saw, sarcastic mister know-it-all…”

Yeah… Things would be a lot easier if Vecchio knew what he went through. What was so bad about having the heart of Nevada in your hands? At least Vecchio’s not him, holding on to worn out skin that isn’t even his. Vecchio must have gotten rid of his own extra layer as soon as he and Fraser left for the Great White North.

“Hey, Stan”, his ass. The guy just wants to clean up the train wreck in front of him, pat himself on the back for a job well done and call it a day. Kowalski bets that’s how he treated Fraser, too. But Kowalski’s nowhere near as broken as Fraser. He left the Mountie a wreck, but he himself is gonna be just fine.

“Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, ‘cause with the birds I’ll share…”

This lonely viewin’. He’d do anything to be with Fraser again and put his isolation behind him, but both of those have to go. Kowalski’s not gonna live for someone else anymore, let alone live their life for them. This will be his own life, for himself only; the rest of the world can die for all he cares. He doesn’t need anyone but his turtles. They can stay for as long as they want.

Kowalski shuts off the water and lets out a satisfied moan. He steps out of the shower, towels off and gets dressed in some casual threads, all while belting out the rest of the song. He cracks his knuckles, points finger guns at his reptilian friends and lets himself fall on the sofa. He puts his headphones back on, lines up the notebooks and grabs his notepad.

“Let’s finish this, Ray.” He presses play and begins to read the last pages, but is relieved when he sees that the notes suddenly end where he stopped reading earlier. He carries the cassette player with him to the kitchen so he can get his stomach to stop growling.

“So I’m in this base, right? Like I said, I do ELINT work,” explains Lagacé while Kowalski takes out bread and other ingredients from the fridge. “That means I have to work with electronic signals. Searching, intercepting, analyzing, reporting…”

Kowalski rolls his eyes, his patience for tangents still nonexistent. He puts a plate on the counter and unpacks everything while the corporal goes on about the details of his job. In the five minutes it takes for him to make his ham and cheese sandwich and clean everything up, the guy’s still blabbing about things he couldn’t care any less about. Even when he washes his hands so he can safely put away the evidence, the man starts talking about his experiences working in the Arctic. Kowalski gets his plate and sits back down on the couch, setting it down and taking a bite out of his snack.

“My good friend Kurt Severn drops by and he’s telling me ‘Hey, Joe! I want you to meet everyone over at the facility! We’ve got beer and ping pong!’ I can’t say no to those things, so I follow him.”

The blond nods; he’s got a fair point.

“So Severn takes me to this place I swear I’d never seen before until then. It’s in Resolute, just like our base, but when I get to the building, there’s nothing but this hatch in front of us. I ask him ‘What the hell is this?’ You know, he might already be drunk. I see him fiddling with something on it, I hear a click and the next thing I know, we’re in this massive space with tunnels and everything.”

An underground base. Kowalski thinks this is getting interesting. He starts writing down what he hears from that point on.

“…We’re all partying and everything, blues tunes filling up the whole place. A lot more officers than researchers there. And the Canadians? They were batshit crazy, but in a good way. One guy there, he had about half a bottle of Jim Beam, but he beat everyone at ping pong anyway. Bob Fraser was his name.”

Kowalski nearly chokes on his sandwich. No, it has to be a coincidence. There has to be quite a few guys in Canada called Bob Fraser, including his friend’s dad and whoever this guy is. He swallows his mouthful and puts his food back on the plate.

“His kid was weird, too. His name was, um… Bentley? Bender? Wait, no. Benton! That’s it.”

“Well, shit.” Small world, but he finds it weird how Fraser never brought this up. He’s got this story about following his dad to some research center during the Cold War and he thinks that’s a less interesting childhood story than his first time going muskox spotting? The cop shakes his head; wonders shall never end with this man.

“We just called him Benny,” adds Lagacé. He cringes when he hears that nickname, but then snorts when he hears him say “The boy was a real smartass.”

“I’ll give him credit, he knew a lot about the world for a six year-old, but like any other kid, he was a smug little prick. Don’t think he meant it, though. I just don’t trust youth with encyclopedic knowledge about Western Canada’s fauna.”

Kowalski’s laughing as he hears the corporal go on and on about little Fraser. Some things just never change.

“It’s just a shame he had to go out that way. I guess he was too good for this world.”

The blond goes silent mid-laugh and clutches his pen. That can’t be right. That shouldn’t be right. Kowalski’s sure he’s already hurt himself with the tip.

“…I don’t know what Severn and his gang were working on, but all I know is that the big guys back home didn’t seem to like it anymore. One day, I was walking around the village when I saw this whole team of geared up guys standing near their building. I tried to ignore them and went back to my base. Soon after that, my men are pulling me out of my office and they’re pointing at this big fire nearby. We check it out and these helicopters are hauling away the troops’ corpses. Everyone in town was watching the mess. All the workers in there must have died, too, but none of them were being hauled out.

“From the corner of my eye, I see about a dozen people huddled up near another building. I walk up to them and one of them’s Bob. He’s covered in blood, just staring into space with tears rolling down his eyes. In his arms, there’s Benny. At least, what’s left of him. This jet black heap of crisped flesh with bones and muscle tissue showing and all. Some of his fingers were missing, too. But he wasn’t dead yet. I couldn’t make out his face, but this hole that must have been his mouth suddenly went wide open for a few seconds. He twitched and made this noise, almost like a door creaking, then he stopped. Bob didn’t even react. He couldn’t. None of us could. We all just watched him take his last breath and… God, it was such a strong smell— Stop. Stop recording. We’re done.”

The tape stopped playing minutes ago, but Kowalski doesn’t notice. He’s curled up on the couch, his mouth repeatedly making an “f” sound. Just like those men back in Resolute, he’s unable to think, unable to react to what he heard.

Kowalski doesn’t sleep that night. He instead feels himself taking his notepad and a coat, leaving the apartment and locking the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

Turnbull watches the last of the night’s moths fly away as the streetlights switch off. Walking down the street, he looks at his watch. 5:54; six more minutes until his shift starts. He looks at the wrapped present in his hands that he finished putting together last night. Initially, it was just supposed to consist of a labradorite pendant that he made over the course of last month. It’s only after receiving a keychain from the White Wolf Society a few days ago that he finally pulled himself together and finalized his now bigger gift. He feels like those moths flew right into his stomach as he begins to feel nervous.

“Morning, Constable.”

Turnbull looks up and sees a man blowing a will-o’-wisp of blue smoke towards the mostly empty road.

“Oh, Mr. Dunleavy! Good morning.”

Dunleavy snuffs out his cigarette with his boot before approaching Turnbull. He adjusts his thin-framed glasses with a bandaged hand and scratches his scalp through strands of chestnut brown hair.

“Listen, I’m sorry about everyone crowding the consulate the other day. I specifically told them that we’re only wearing the Serges when we’re trying to raise money through selling our goods. We don’t mean to impersonate you and your brethren at all.”

“It’s okay, but just make sure that they don’t start causing any trouble around here. It won’t make us and your club look good to the police.”

“And I’d kill myself if I were to be responsible for sullying Constable Fraser’s name in any way,” mumbles Dunleavy, staring into the Mountie’s eyes.

Turnbull gulps. “You seem to like him a lot.”

“Of course I do, Constable,” calmly confirms Dunleavy as he surveys his yellow tinted fingernails. “He’s everything to me. Gives me and all of us a reason to live. You know, this place has gone to hell since he left. There’s never going to be anyone like him in Chicago again, so that’s why we do this. At least, why I do this, anyway. Constable Fraser needs to be honored for what he did and I’m more than willing to carry his torch.”

“I understand,” says Turnbull, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Say, while I’m here, I just want to thank you again for the Fraser keychain.”

“It’s no problem, really. I hope you find a good use for it. I know you will,” rasps Dunleavy with an awkward smile. “Look, I have to go to work now. My shift starts in about fifteen minutes.”

“Alright, then. Have a good Monday!”

“Thank you kindly.” A shiver goes up Turnbull’s spine; those words don’t feel right coming out of someone else’s mouth. He watches Dunleavy walk into the dawn when the man suddenly stops in his tracks.

“Ah, one more thing! There’s a strange man cradling himself on the consulate stoop. He’s wearing nothing but his underwear and a trench coat. He’ll get sick in this weather if no one takes care of him. I might be wrong about this, but he seems to be Fraser’s last partner.”

Turnbull raises an eyebrow as he watches him walk away. Realizing what he just said, he hurries to the consulate and sees a wide-eyed, sweaty Kowalski sitting by the stairs.

“Oh geez, Ray… What are you doing here?” He runs up the steps and crouches next to him. “What happened?”

“F-F-Frase.”

“What? What about him?”

“Vecchio, where’s Vecchio? I’ve gotta see him, I’ve gotta tell him about— I-I…”

Turnbull sighs as he helps Kowalski up and takes him indoors. He then leads him to the bathroom so he can take off his trench coat and splash a heap of cold water on him.

Shaking, Kowalski’s initial scream becomes a growl. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Turnbull!?”

“I’m sorry, Ray, but you were in a catatonic state!”

“Why am I practically naked!?”

“Well, I had nothing to do with that,” states Turnbull as he hands him a towel to dry himself with. “That’s honestly up to you to answer.”

“Listen, do you know where Vecchio’s staying? I’ve gotta tell him something real important.”

“You don’t know? I thought you two were—”

Kowalski gets in Turnbull’s face. “What? You thought we were what? Friends?”

“So you’re saying we aren’t?”

Turnbull and Kowalski turn around and see Vecchio standing by the doorway. Kowalski immediately turns away from him.

“Speak of the devil!” exclaims the man in red. “How did you get in here?”

“You left the door open, genius,” answers Vecchio, completely ignoring Turnbull’s blush. “Anyway, I wanna talk to Kowalski. Alone.”

“Right! He actually needed to see you, too. Well, I have work to do… You know, like taking care of the door…” Turnbull clears his throat. “Don’t stay too long in there, alright? We’re expecting important visitors in about an hour from now.”

The Mountie leaves both Rays alone in the bathroom. Vecchio walks up to Kowalski and physically makes him face him. He snickers at the sight of Kowalski with flat hair, a black trench coat, striped briefs, a worn-out Bulls tee and absolutely nothing on his wet feet.

“You look like shit, Stanley.”

“You _smell_ like shit,” retorts Kowalski with a grimace before shrugging away from Vecchio’s incoming hands. “And I told you not to touch me.”

“What’s your problem? I thought we were finally starting to get along, you and I.”

“Yeah, only because we both wanted to take down Muldoon and his boys. That and a couple of stuff we have in common doesn’t mean we’re buddies all of a sudden. So get that through your thick Italian skull,” warns Kowalski as he attempts to grab Vecchio by his shirt, “or my fist will.”

Vecchio catches Kowalski’s clammy hand in time. “I don’t think I need to tell you why you don’t have any friends.”

“I don’t need friends.”

“But Turnbull said you needed to see me, so you tell me how that checks out.”

Kowalski takes a deep breath. “That case your buddy was telling me about the other day? It’s bigger than I thought.”

“How big?”

“Top secret Cold War experiment big.”

“Let me guess, the corporal was stationed in Resolute back in the fifties? Saw Fraser hanging out at some underground base with his ping pong champion dad?”

“What, that’s all he told you?” The blond fishes in his pocket for his notepad and hands it to Vecchio. “Read this.”

Vecchio eyes the scrawls on the pages for roughly a minute before handing it back to him. “Well, I was curious about the new you for a while and this settles it. You’re an addict now, aren’t you?”

“Who the— What!?”

“Human enhancement? Civilian testing? _Fraser_ being burned to death as a kid? You don’t expect me to believe any of this, do you?”

“You think I’d joke about something like that? I’m dead serious! This is what the Boones were researching all along. That’s why they were killed. It must have been someone working for the government. It could even be one of those White Wolf freaks!”

“Alright, that’s enough, Kowalski. You need help,” declares Vecchio.

“Yeah, yours. You’re coming with me to Resolute. We’re gonna tell Fraser what the truth is about him a-and we’re both gonna, we’re gonna expose this IMAGHO thing—”

“I mean the professional kind of help. Just listen to yourself. You’re crazy!”

“As if I don’t know that already,” mutters Kowalski. “I’m seeing a shrink for that.”

“Looks like you’re hopeless, then. I could say it was nice knowing you, but the rational part of me knows that’s not true.”

Kowalski feels his nails dig into his palm as he watches Vecchio leave. He sneaks some paces behind him as they’re both leaving the consulate, but his attempt to tackle Vecchio from behind is halted by a solid slug to the temple. Kowalski collapses near the entrance desk, squinting at him stepping out with a present in his hands before deciding to rest on the floor of the consulate.

Somehow, things go back into their natural rhythm from there. Kowalski gets the day off, Vecchio drinks with Lagacé, Monday becomes Tuesday and the world keeps spinning.

Pinkert covers for Kowalski as Visser’s looking for him, Lagacé watches Vecchio drink, Tuesday becomes Wednesday and the world keeps spinning.

Halloran yells at Kowalski in spite of his progress in the Boone case, Huey and Dewey kick Vecchio and Lagacé out, Wednesday becomes Thursday and the world keeps spinning.

Kowalski hides from his obligations in his apartment, Vecchio hides from his family in a motel room, Thursday becomes Friday and the world keeps spinning for everyone outside of Chicago.


	6. Chapter 6

Vecchio lies on his back on the bed, absentmindedly looking at the ceiling. “Hey, Corporal.”

“Yeah?”

“You never told me why those two were killed,” he lamely notes.

Lagacé gets up from the edge of the bed and walks to the window. “No?”

“Nope. You were too drunk to tell me anything relevant.”

“Fair enough. You were too drunk to listen to what I had to say, anyway.”

“Touché.” Vecchio props himself up on his elbows. “Hey, what are you doing over there?”

“Trying to file my nails,” says the corporal. “Can’t see too well over there.” He takes out a red stick and tinkers with it before bringing it to his nails.

“Wait, is that a Swiss Army knife? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t get your panties bunched up, Vecchio. Every one of these comes with a nail file.”

The former detective shakes his head. “Whatever. Hey, since we’re both sober for once, why don’t you tell me what those Boone kids were working on?”

Lagacé stops to look at Vecchio for a moment before continuing to do his business. “Right. That’s what I came here for. Guess you’ll be my test run before I tell everyone else.” He gulps. “Remember when I told you that I saw your friend Benny Fraser at that underground base?”

“Yeah.”

“When I was looking you up back in the Keys, I saw that he’s still alive. Problem is, he’s not supposed to be.”

“…What?”

“He was killed about a week before I left Resolute, just like almost everyone else at the base. Burnt to a crisp when I saw him in Bob’s arms.”

Vecchio feels himself tense up. “Jesus…”

“I couldn’t tell you what it was that they were working on, but it looked like our higher-ups were getting sick of it.”

“So you’re saying that…?”

“Their deaths were an inside—”

Vecchio hears glass breaking. The next thing he knows, he’s crouching between the bed and the back wall. He crawls past the bed and sees the corporal slumped over on the floor, his Swiss Army knife laying next to his open palm. Vecchio checks him for a pulse, but doesn’t find anything.

“Dammit!”

He sees a second hole appear on the window and hears another one being made as he grabs the multitool and hides behind a closet near the door. He steadies his breath as he plans his next move.

He’s on the second floor, which means that while he won’t be able to run to safety right away, he’ll be able to lead the sniper on a temporary chase from his own vantage point on the balcony. From there, he can jump over the railing at a further area and flee the motel. It’s not his first time doing something like this, but he hoped that his last would remain one of his many attempts to escape assassination in Vegas. Even though there might be more than one gunman outside and there’s no muscle to back him up, Vecchio’s not scared. He knows he’ll survive.

* * *

Kowalski takes three espresso shots this time around. He hears his partner enter the squadroom, but doesn’t bother to look at him.

“Where the hell’ve you been these last few days, Kowalski?”

“None of your business, Pink.” Kowalski’s tone is flat.

“Excuse me, but I think it is my business when the last time my partner showed up for work was just to have the lieutenant talk his ear off before leaving again!”

Kowalski ignores him.

“Hey, look at me!”

He’s still silent.

“I said look at me!”

“Oh, shut the fuck up already.” Kowalski turns around, his puffy eyes casting a derisive glance at Pinkert. “It’s ten in the morning. Go browse a case file and let me drink my coffee.”

“I can’t. The servers are down,” croaks Pinkert. The younger cop clears his throat after Kowalski raises an eyebrow. “So, I heard you’ve almost cracked the Boone case. Good for you.”

“Yeah. What a shame that one of us is sick of looking the other way and cutting corners.”

“Don’t put it like that. I just did what I had to so that people around here don’t have to panic even more during a summer like this.”

Kowalski sways over to his partner like a tree in a hurricane. “That’s a pretty long-winded way of saying ‘covering my ass’, Pinkert.”

“S-stop putting words in my mouth!”

“I didn’t make you say that ‘your reputation as the precinct’s golden boy was on the line’.”

“I-I never said that!”

A demented smile forms on Kowalski’s pale face. “Nice try, kid. What, is there another reason why you closed the case early?”

His smile disappears as quickly as it appeared when the lights suddenly go out.

“Ray?”

Pinkert feels himself being pulled to the ground as he hears gunfire and screams.

“What’s…?”

Kowalski shushes him. “Grab your gun. I’ve got a feeling that whoever that is will be here soon.” He unholsters his own weapon, a new one that he’s grown to hate with each passing day. Noticing that Pinkert is starting to hyperventilate, he squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t panic. Just focus on taking down whoever that is as soon as they get here.” He gives up on trying to talk to him when he doesn’t get an answer, instead focusing on toggling his safety off.

Compared to his old capacity of fifteen rounds, Kowalski’s only got eight with this one. He’d also normally be pissed about how light his new firearm is, but given how weak he’s been feeling these last few days, its weight (or lack thereof) is a blessing for him. However, he forgot his glasses at home, which would have made this scenario less of a bitch to deal with.

His heart pounds when he hears steps closing in. Slowly edging himself from underneath the table, he points his gun at the doorway, barely able to make out its outline in the dark.

One second, Kowalski pulls the trigger, but the gun doesn’t go off right away; the first shot’s double-action, which he doesn’t have time for right now. The ensuing shot comes in too little, too late, bouncing off the fridge. The next second, he feels Pinkert shove him into clear sight of the shooter. Rounds hit the garbage bin behind Kowalski, but the latter finally gets to open fire, his second, smoother shot striking the shooter in the face. The emergency power system finally kicks in, allowing the blond to land a shot on each of the shooter’s now free hands.

Kowalski gets up and flinches when he sees the shooter’s warped eyeball. He makes a note to himself that he really does need remedial practice. Looking at him closely, he’s pretty sure that’s the faux Fraser who approached him the other day. Despite the man being in civilian clothing, Kowalski also notices that he has a musket on him. Looks like pretend Canadians are even weirder than the real thing.

So that’s how things are going to be. Besides, he called it; the White Wolf Society is indeed a band of freaks. He punts the downed assailant’s head before pressing his boot on it, the sounds of his gurgling meaning nothing to him.

“Mess with me again, freak poser, I dare you—”

“All clear!” yells one of his coworkers from down the hallway. He’s not sure which one, but doesn’t care all that much, neither. He turns the safety back on, holsters his pistol and starts to haul the cavalryman away by his legs. Pinkert crawls out from under the table. He’s mortified at the sight of a smoking trash bin and his overcaffeinated partner about to drag a bloody man across the station.

“Ray! What the hell are you doing!?”

“Fuck you. I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

Kowalski leaves the room with the mangled fanboy in tow. He’s gonna give everyone in here a piece of his mind, Halloran included. A familiar voice inside of him tells him that this is a bad idea, but he shuts it up right away. He’s had it with these space invaders posing as cops. He knows their plot and that they want him dead for knowing about it.

* * *

Kowalski’s put on administrative leave for two weeks, but tells himself that it’s worth it as he takes the elevator up to his floor. When he gets there, he sees that his door is slightly ajar. He’s too worn out to care about who’s inside, so he walks right into his dimly lit apartment.

“Hurry up and shoot me.”

“Don’t tempt me, Kowalski.”

Kowalski looks up, his hand hovering over his holster as he takes a step backward. “How did you get in here?”

Vecchio flicks his Swiss Army knife, the pin glinting in a streak of light that also shows a bruised portion of his face. “Lockpicking. Don’t worry, your lock’s fine. Couldn’t have done it any harder than the way you unlock that thing. And why the hell do you have two turtles? Who are you, Master Splinter? You're gonna buy two more to complete the set once you finally have some cash on you?”

Kowalski closes the door behind him before walking towards Vecchio. “Okay, lemme try something else. _Why_ are you here?”

“I was hiding the corporal in a motel room, then he was killed by a sniper. Snatched this thing from him, left the room, jumped over a railing as I was getting shot at, hurt myself, ran like hell, remembered your address and broke into your place,” spouts off Vecchio before taking a breath. “How’s your morning been?”

“Can’t say that a cultist with a musket trying to assassinate me at work before I get put on leave is a worse way to start my day than yours.”

Vecchio raises his eyebrows. “Sounds about even to me. Hate to say it, but you might be right.”

“About what?” Kowalski makes his way to the blinds to open them.

“Don’t, don’t,” groans Vecchio. “They might still be out there. Listen, what you told me about Fraser being burned to death? You were right. It’s the last thing Lagacé told me before he got snuffed out. He also said that the underground base massacre was an inside job.”

The blond sits next to Vecchio on the sofa, looking at him with concern.

“What, you’re not gonna say ‘I told you so’?”

“Maybe later. Right now, you need some ice. Stay here. I’ll go get some from the fridge.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me, Kowalski,” hollers Vecchio from the living room.

“Get off your high horse, Vecchio.” Kowalski notices a wrapped package on the counter, but doesn’t think much of it. He knows that Vecchio would have taken care of it if the package was a threat. “Besides, we’re both gonna have to look out for each other from here on out.”

An awkward silence settles in, persisting until the moment Kowalski comes back with a plastic bag full of ice cubes. He takes a cube and presses it against Vecchio’s bruised cheek.

“Ow! You’re more stupid than I thought, aren’t you? You don’t press ice directly to a wound!”

“That’s for calling me a hopeless addict.”

“Look, I’m sorry about that, alright? I was way outta line. I mean, you’re going through some personal crap of your own, too, right?”

“What do you mean, ‘too’? You look just fine to me. You know, except for your face.”

“Forget it. How about we distract ourselves instead of stressing out all day? The Duck Boys told me the Cubs are supposed to play the Expos today,” says Vecchio with a faint smile. “They got tickets, the lucky bastards.”

The blond’s face lights up as he passes the bag of ice to Vecchio. “We home team?”

“You know it. We’ll get those poutine gobblers good.” He high-fives Kowalski as he tries to get himself comfortable on the sofa. “It’s hot as hell in here. You got air conditioning?”

“Busted. Sorry.” Kowalski grabs the remote and turns the TV on.

“Didn’t expect any less from you, Stan. Your whole life’s a mess, right down to this dump you call home.”

“Shut up. Your life’s a mess, too, remember?”

They laugh as they tune into the pregame coverage.

* * *

The actual game itself doesn’t last long. The cameras suddenly stop rolling around the third inning and the program changes to a rerun of some soap opera.

“Oh, come on!” The Rays voice their irritation in perfect harmony.

“Okay, but nothing happened,” whines Kowalski. “What was there to cut away from?”

“Beats me. Got cards? We could play Hold ‘Em.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

* * *

“We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming…”

“Goddammit, not again!” Kowalski slams his deck on the table.

“Shut it, Kowalski. Listen up.”

The broadcast cuts to a reporter standing outside of Wrigley Field. A fleet of ambulances, police cars and stretchers can be seen behind her. In addition to them, distressed fans of both teams are being escorted out of the stadium by authorities.

“Today’s much anticipated game came to a disturbing halt when several spectators suddenly fell ill from what is suspected to be food poisoning. No deaths have been reported yet, but it’s estimated that there are at least one hundred and thirty infected. This number is only tentative, as evacuations are still underway and some of the victims have only now arrived at hospitals citywide. We have yet to know what exactly caused the food poisoning and how it was allowed to happen in the first place, but police and public health inspectors will investigate the stadium’s food supply as soon as the building is fully evacuated. We’ll bring you more information as the story develops.”

Kowalski can’t process what he just witnessed; he doesn’t notice Vecchio walking to the counter to pick up the package. It’s only when he hears the door open that he runs up to him.

“Vecchio.”

“Look, I just have to be with Ma and the others right now,” explains Vecchio, still looking away from him.

“You can’t. It’s not safe out there, remember?

“Ray, you’ve been in my shoes. You know how much my family means to me. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

“But you’ll come back, right?” Kowalski sounds more insecure than he’d like to come off as.

“I don’t know. You want me to?”

Kowalski doesn’t trust himself to answer him in his current state of mind.

“I’ll drop by again tomorrow, okay?”

“Promise?”

Vecchio glances over his shoulder. “‘Promise?’ What are you, eight?”

He leaves with that present in his hands again, but Kowalski doesn’t tackle him this time. He’s too scared to beat him up; too pained, even. It’s not supposed to hurt this much, but it does.

When Kowalski calls his understandably distressed parents some time later, he feels a little better. For the first time since coming back home, the detective feels like he matters and that he’s not alone in this world.


	7. Chapter 7

_The News-Gazette – Champaign, Illinois_

_Wednesday, July 21, 1999_

Year of the Bug: Restless Chicago Has More Than Y2K to Be Worried About

_Takeru Sodeoka_

_It’s been almost five days since the Chicago terrorist attacks happened last Friday. People outside of Illinois call it 7/16, but in the infamously troubled metropolis and its environs, everyone calls it_ Viral Friday _. Not only was there a distributed denial-of-service (DDoS) attack that crippled the city’s metropolitan network, but a heavily altered strand of E.coli O157:H7 was implanted into thousands of wieners that were sold that afternoon during the Cubs vs. Expos game at Wrigley Field. Out of the 30,200 spectators present, 7,167 of them have died while 22,700 were infected. Some of the latter are fortunate enough to have made partial recoveries. The death toll continues to rise as several patients succumb to their illnesses; most of the deceased were unable to get medical attention due to hospitals being filled to capacity. As for the healthy spectators, they were vaccinated against the E.coli bacteria shortly after the stadium was evacuated._

_The accused in both cases is one Matthew Dunleavy, a twenty-nine year old meat packer from Chicago’s North Side. He was also the president of the now disbanded White Wolf Society, a citywide fan club dedicated to RCMP officer Cst. Benton Fraser. Fraser, considered to be a local hero, is said to have returned to his native Canada earlier this March after having lived in the Windy City for no less than four years. Mr. Dunleavy was found guilty of first degree murder and computer crime. More specifically, the murder was categorized as a “murder by the use of a weapon of mass destruction”, which is a capital crime. He is to be executed this Friday, exactly one week after 7/16._

_As for Chicago’s residents, the events of Viral Friday and the statewide heat wave have substantially lowered their inhibitions. Crime is at an all time high, mainly expressed through rising counts of voluntary manslaughter, vandalism, indecent exposure, drug possession and alarmist breaches of the peace. It’s rumored that if this state of unrest continues into August, martial law will be implemented throughout the Chicago Metropolitan Area for an indefinite amount of time. State legislators are planning to shrink seating capacities for every stadium and arena in order to minimize the impact of future incidents. They also wish to negotiate with the USDA for stricter policies regarding the handling of domestic sources of poultry and red meat._

_All of Cook County was placed under quarantine on Saturday. Citizens and detained tourists alike are advised to frequently wash their hands, only leave their places of residence or hotels if absolutely necessary and get vaccinated at their local clinic if they’re not infected. There have also been a number of suicides in the wake of the Wrigley Field tragedy, as well as overdoses; both of these have prompted the growing count of support groups in the city. People across the country are encouraged to donate to charities dedicated to helping the residents of the Chicago area physically and psychologically recover from the shock of 7/16, as well as rebuild their community._

Frannie finishes reading the article aloud from the newspaper’s official website. “Geez, can you believe all of this just happened out of the blue?” She shoots a glance at her brother, who’s leaning on her desk and observing the room.

In all the years that Ray has worked at the 27th precinct, he’s never seen it this quiet before. He’d even call it peaceful if it weren’t for the reason why it’s this way. Ray toys with the Fraser keychain in his hand, still not understanding what she meant when she told him that he’d need it more than her. “Thanks for letting me come over and stay. Missed you all.”

“You say that like we didn’t want you around. Of course we did, Ray! We even asked you to stay after leaving your stuff with us! You’re the one who was just too chicken to come back for whatever reason you pulled out of your…!” Frannie sighs in frustration.

Ray finally looks at her. “Can we just skip the fighting and go straight to worrying about what might happen next?”

“Fine, but you started it.”

“What? No, you started it!”

“No, you did!”

“You di—”

The Vecchios stop quarreling when they notice Welsh staring at them. “You know, I’m really glad that I never had you two working here at the same time.” They smile at him as he approaches them.

“It’s been a while, sir,” points out Ray.

“That, it has. Good to see you again, Vecchio,” says Welsh, giving him a firm handshake. “Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Come with me to my office.”

Ray gives the lieutenant a doubtful look. “You’re not worried that this place might be bugged?”

“Good idea. Let’s go outside, have a nice chat and get our skulls bashed in by some paranoiacs with food poisoning.”

Welsh, knowing that he made his point crystal clear, leads Ray to his office. The latter’s never been happier to see a ceiling fan. He closes the blinds and sits on the couch, watching his former boss pace around the room.

“You know, I went to that game,” begins the lieutenant.

“Yeah? Did you see Huey and Dewey?”

“No, but Huey told me that Dewey got infected. He’s still in the hospital.”

Ray furrows his brows. “How’s Huey?”

“It’s complicated. He wasn’t infected, so he got himself vaccinated. Problem is, he hasn’t been himself since then.”

“How so? Scared that he might be the last Duck Boy standing?”

“You’re not wrong, but that’s only part of the problem. All of this hit him pretty hard, I’ll say that.” Welsh pauses for a bit. “Alright. I thought to myself that maybe I should visit him, talk to him for a bit, but I didn’t want to let him know in advance or he’d have stressed out even more.”

“So what happened?”

“When I saw him, he told me that he was expecting me to come over, since he heard me driving to his house about five minutes ago. He also told me that he hasn’t been able to sleep because of the doomsday criers downtown, but he lives in the suburbs. There’s no way he should have been able to hear them.”

Ray’s putting puzzle pieces together in his head; he motions for Welsh to continue.

“As if that wasn’t strange enough, I barely managed to get a word in when we spoke. He answered my questions before I even got to open my mouth. I had to leave when he thanked me for not getting us involved in the Viral Friday op. I never told anyone about that.”

“Wait, what did you say?” Ray gets up from the sofa. “What was that about getting involved in a Viral Friday op?”

The only sound that can be heard in the ensuing silence is the weak whirring of the fan.

“Sir.”

“Viral Friday was the department’s fault. The CIA convinced most of the precincts to carry out that cyber attack and the food poisoning.”

Frannie, who just crept near Welsh’s office to eavesdrop, clutches the labradorite stone hanging from her neck. As for her sibling, he’s speechless.

“Like I said,” resumes Welsh, “I didn’t want anything to do with the operation. The men in black wouldn’t have it, so they had the department minimize our budget. Not like we had that much money to blow, anyway.”

“Wait, so you’re telling me that the CIA put hits out on me and Kowalski?”

“They did what?”

“Shit! Kowalski! Gotta tell him…!”

Welsh and Frannie look at each other, both dumbfounded after witnessing Ray rush out of the office and exit the station.

* * *

A day later, Kowalski shows up to where Dunleavy’s being detained; he refuses to let him fry without making him feel his wrath first. He sees the felon being escorted to the other side of the glass. His dry smile makes Kowalski want to run the risk of getting shards lodged in his knuckles. One of the guards motions that they have five minutes. Kowalski and Dunleavy take their phones off the hooks at the same time.

“So we finally meet, Stanley Kowalski. I’ll get to leave this world having spoken to Constable Fraser’s last partner. The man who set off the domino chain—”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t have time for your Hannibal impression.”

“Understood,” croons Dunleavy.

Kowalski slams his fist on the glass. “Don’t say that. You say that again and I’ll shock you myself. Now, you’re gonna tell me why you’re the fall guy for this whole Viral Friday thing.”

“Wait, how do you know that none of it is my fault?”

“You’re not answering me.”

Dunleavy takes a deep breath. “I killed the Boones, alright? Trevor contacted me to tell me about Constable Fraser being a clone with ‘evidence’. I didn’t believe him and I sure as hell wasn’t going to accept someone insulting his humanity like that, so I killed him and his fiancee. Look where my devotion got all of us. I’m on death row, you’re losing your mind and Chicago’s practically a charnel house. Yeah, I’d say that curiosity left the cat a quadriplegic with cataracts. No pun intended.”

“Who sicced that White Wolf dickhead with a musket on me at work?”

“Oh my God, a musket?” Dunleavy laughs. “I’m proud to assume that this man did his research as told. I’ll definitely be impressed if it’s an actual Snider-Enfield he used.”

Kowalski slams his hand on the counter. “You did it, didn’t you?”

“No! Believe it or not, I’m not the kind of person to have others dirty their hands for me. I’d have to imagine that a member of the group was contracted by the authorities.”

“So the CIA tried to cover up the case so they could use the victims’ info to work on IMAGHO again, then tried to kill me when I caught on to their game,” notes Kowalski to himself.

“IMAGHO? What’s that? Some kind of secret operation?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. The elite’s always up to shady stuff like that.”

The blond looks at Dunleavy in confusion. “What elite?”

“The Trilateral Commission, you fucking fool.” The felon repeatedly twirls a finger in his hair. “Listen, the Wrigley contagion was obviously a population control tactic. You and I live in the third biggest city in the United States and our crime rate’s one of the highest in the country. Wouldn’t the government want to preserve that inviting American Dream prestige by making sure that all the chickens are in their coop? Ensuring that the good ones are ripe for consumption and the bad ones are discarded?”

Dunleavy notices that Kowalski’s at least mildly interested in what he has to say; he flashes a cocksure smirk out of pride.

“If you’re not part of the elite, they’re picking their teeth with your bones. That’s why everyone wants to be number one. It’s not just the fame and fortune. None of that will matter in a few months. They want power, knowledge and protection for when shit hits the fan like this.”

Kowalski forces a smile. “Okay, thanks for the story. Really appreciated it. Bye!” He waves at the prisoner as he’s about to hang up on him.

Dunleavy suddenly peers into Kowalski’s eyes, his near black pupils threatening to suck the light out of the detective's own. “How does it feel, Kowalski?”

“…How does what feel?”

“Knowing that our Fraser is a fake. Crafted by people in a lab as an image of what a real human should be. I’m not scared of dying anymore, not when people like him exist. See, there are all these claims of what Heaven is like and how you should behave to get there, but I’m perfectly happy that Hell makes no qualms about what it is: a place for sinners such as myself. Human goodness is nothing but a social construct, Stanley. You’d do best to remember that and instead focus on self-preservation when the apocalypse comes around, because self-sacrifice will be as effective as committing suicide.”

Dunleavy hangs up, getting up before the guards get to drag him away themselves. Kowalski mulls over everything he was told while driving back home, somehow not crashing into any doomsday murals on the way there.

* * *

“You’re quiet, Kowalski.”

Kowalski rubs the tab of his beer can, not paying attention to what’s on TV.

“What do you think about Fraser?” softly queries the blond.

“What do you mean?” Vecchio murmurs back.

“You know, now that we know he’s a clone.”

“Who cares?”

Kowalski’s eyes widen while Vecchio finishes his beer.

“I always thought he was more of an alien, if you ask me. Anyway, he’s been a great guy for all the time we've known him, right? Hell, he’s more human than a lot of people out there, so why should it matter all of a sudden where he came from?”

“Do you think he might have…? Never mind.”

“No, what is it?”

“Forget it.” Kowalski gulps. “Think I’m gonna go to bed.”

Vecchio watches the blond get up and walk to his room, his bare torso momentarily illuminated by the glow of the TV before disappearing into the darkness. After a few minutes, he quietly enters Kowalski’s bedroom and crouches next to him. The latter gets up almost immediately.

“Can’t sleep?”

Kowalski doesn’t answer him.

Vecchio shakes his head. “Goodnight, Kowalski—”

“I saw my shrink earlier this week,” drones Kowalski, staring off into space. “Told her about my last dream. I was underwater again, but Fraser was finally down there with me. I couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see him, but I felt him holding me. I didn’t touch him, I didn’t want to touch him and all of a sudden, he’s on fire. He’s holding me tighter and burning me, I can feel him screaming, there’s smoke building up and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!” Kowalski’s trembling, now yelling. “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! I can’t—”

Vecchio backhands him and he goes quiet, save for little gasps that he thinks might actually be sobs. He looks at his hand before looking back up at Kowalski.

“Hey. I don’t know what happened between you and Fraser up there, but your plan to go to Resolute might have you two meet up again. I’m sure you two will work things out.”

“I thought you hated my plan.”

“Well, it makes more sense now that the world’s practically ending in advance,” confirms Vecchio as he gets up. “You’ll be able to kill three birds with one stone: expose IMAGHO, tell Fraser the truth about who he is and get back together with him. So go to sleep. You’ve got this.” He’s about to walk away when he feels Kowalski shakily grab his forearm.

“What, you’re not coming with me? I thought we had each other’s backs.”

“I retired for a reason, Kowalski. I’m done with all of these crazy adventures and going undercover. I’m back in Chicago for good. I’ll get to know myself again, reconnect with my family, manage a building that isn’t a bowling alley and settle down with someone. That’s it. Besides, this place needs all the help it can get right now.”

The detective squeezes him harder, hoping that he breaks one of his bones in the process. “But you’re Fraser’s friend, too. Don’t you wanna see him again? Don’t you wanna see what the corporal was talking about that almost got us killed?”

Vecchio jerks his forearm away from him. “Jesus, what’s your deal with me? You’ve been hung up on me these last few weeks for some reason. Why don’t you get your own words through your thick skull: we might be working towards the same goals and have a few things in common, but we’re not friends. We’re not friends and we’ll never be friends, so give it up already!”

“Fuck, man!” Kowalski’s voice starts to waver. “You think I don’t know that? Get out!”

“I swear, you can’t do anything on your own. Livestock has more free will than you.”

“I said get out! Go cry to your mom or something.”

Vecchio chuckles. “You think I’m gonna cry? I’m not the one whose voice is cracking.”

When he leaves the apartment, Kowalski doesn’t cry, but instead bites down on his lip to the point of drawing blood. He doesn’t deserve his tears. No one does and ever will.

* * *

Vecchio comes back to Kowalski’s now-lit bedroom two hours later with annotated maps of Wisconsin and Minnesota, garnering him a sleepy, split-lipped smile from the detective.

“What, you couldn’t even wait for me so we could plan this out together?”

“Nope,” says Vecchio as he sits on the floor. “We’ve gotta hit the ground running before this place gets blocked off for good by the army. Besides, I don’t trust your navigational skills one bit.”

“Well, you’d better,” yawns Kowalski. “I spent months in the Arctic, remember?”

“Following Fraser around, I bet.” Vecchio smirks at the detective’s eye-rolling. “You know I’m right.”

“Hey, I’m right about something, too.”

“And what would that be?”

Kowalski stretches out on the bed. “I knew you’d come around. Go on a road trip, save the country, see shit you’re not supposed to see and talk to Fraser again? Knew you wouldn’t resist having that as your last adventure.”

“Yeah, if only because you’d never be able to do all of that alone.”

“Right, because I'm some kind of stupid baby. Hey, stop smiling at me like that!”

“You’re more sensitive than you let on. I like that.”

Kowalski’s cheeks take on a bright pink tone.

“Which means that you’ll die out there without someone like me, softie.” Vecchio doesn’t flinch from the pillow chucked at his head and hitting the wall near him. “Hey, your aim still sucks. I missed that.”

“So you’re saying that you missed me, then.”

Kowalski takes his silence for a yes and smirks to himself.

“Look, Kowalski, are we friends or not?”

“…Yeah, whatever. Just for this.”

Vecchio’s not satisfied with his answer, but he’ll take what he can get.

Over the next few days, they plan their exit from Chicago, get their old winter clothes and put their money together to buy the cheapest camera they can find. Without any official paperwork detailing IMAGHO, they’ll need all the evidence they can get. Their first objective doesn’t go anywhere until Kowalski’s allowed to work again, his newest task hitting that sweet spot between the end of his punishment and the planned beginning of martial law in Chicago.

* * *

The night of July 30th, Detective Kowalski’s stopped by four people in hazmat suits as he tries to leave the city.

“Sorry, but you’re not allowed to leave the premises,” announces one of them. “This is only for your safety and that of others outside the perimeter. Nothing personal.”

Kowalski flashes his badge. “How personal's this? I’m chasing a fugitive here.”

The quartet talk amongst themselves, pushing Kowalski to honk his horn after a few minutes. “Hello? Biological threat to people’s safety out there!”

“Excuse us, we just—”

They nearly get run over by a speeding black Pontiac GTO as they momentarily clear the way for him.


	8. Chapter 8

Kowalski branches off from the I-94 to a stable area so he can open the trunk. A short-winded Vecchio emerges from their mountain of supplies with a water bottle.

“Oh God, oh Jesus, oh God…”

“Hey, relax,” says Kowalski while laughing. “I thought you said you’ve done this kind of thing before.”

“There’s a difference between riding in a trunk on a fall afternoon from one part of the city to another and riding in a trunk on a triple digit summer night on the goddamn highway! Oh, shit. Oh, I’m dizzy. Help me up.”

Kowalski pulls his partner out of the trunk and narrowly avoids a stream of vomit on his shoes. He’s turned his back to him and has obviously stopped having fun.

“Any of that lands on the Goat and I’m dragging you down the interstate.”

The plastic click of Vecchio’s water bottle echoes throughout the parking lot. “Where are we?”

“Skokie.”

“Skokie, huh?” Vecchio puts a mint in his mouth after tossing a used tissue. “Got any bagels for us, then?”

“No, it’s one in the morning,” says an annoyed Kowalski. “We’ve got food in the trunk, anyway, unless you puked all over it, too.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be for emergencies?”

“My life’s a neverending emergency, Vecchio.”

The two enter the car, Kowalski getting back in the driver’s seat. He sees Vecchio going through his pockets and pulling out a Fraser keychain. Vecchio leans towards the front mirror to hang it there.

Kowalski lunges towards his hand. “No. No, get that thing out of here.”

“What’s wrong with it? Your breakup with Fraser was that bad?”

“No, shut up!” Kowalski ignores Vecchio’s raised eyebrows. “That beady eyed… thing was handmade by a bunch of cultists.”

“You mean those sweaty vinyl Mounties all over town made this? Huh. Didn’t think they’d have time to do that in between prostrating for him.”

Vecchio earns a hog-like snort from Kowalski before the latter drives away. Crocheted mini Fraser swings back and forth from the mirror as the Rays return to the highway.

* * *

An hour and a half without music later (“You forgot to pack cassettes?! Christ, Kowalski!”), they stop the car by a lakeside park in Milwaukee and quietly watch the still scene before them.

“So you’re telling me that the Fraser cult leader had nothing to do with the attacks at all? He wasn’t hired by the department or anything?”

Kowalski shakes his head. “Dunleavy admitted to killing the Boones, but that’s it. The department knows what he did, so it was easy for them to sweep that case under the rug and make him the fall guy for Viral Friday, all while knowing what those two were working on.”

Vecchio takes a sip of his soda. “What else did Dunleavy tell you?”

“He said that what happened at Wrigley Field was meant to be population control or something,” states Kowalski while dunking a chicken nugget into some ketchup.

“I don’t buy it.” Vecchio turns to his partner, looking intently at him. “I mean, that might be part of it, but I think the audience was mainly used as guinea pigs for something. Huey didn’t get sick, but Welsh said that after he got vaccinated, he…” He quietly swears to himself.

“What?”

“God, I’m gonna sound like a crazy person saying this.”

“Hey, it means that you actually know what’s going on,” reassures Kowalski with a grin. “Come on, say it.”

“…He said that Huey could hear things from far away and that he read his mind.”

Kowalski’s face is serious again. “IMAGHO.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to be?” Vecchio reaches for a chicken nugget, but Kowalski slaps his hand away.

“Yeah. It’s this Cold War virus that was supposed to beef up soldiers’ mental capacities and senses by screwing with their cells or something. Their research says that the government was planning to use it on civilians by slipping it into vaccines for other sicknesses.” Kowalski eats his sauced up nugget as he dips another one.

Vecchio stares at the empty street they’re on, his expression indecipherable. “All those people… All those people died just for population control and testing some old Superman virus on total strangers. For what, another war that’s being hidden from us? Jesus, I expected this kind of shit from the CIA, but not from the CPD, too. I swear, the world had better end soon enough.”

Kowalski’s hit with a wave of emotion. Before him is a man he knows had dedicated himself for years to protect the vulnerable and apprehend the wicked. A man who no doubt knew that his line of work was full of untrustworthy people on both sides of the law. A man who he believes chose to stay true to himself in spite of the pain that must have come with his decision. For once, Kowalski thinks he can see himself in Vecchio. He wonders if Vecchio’s feeling the same way that he himself did when he saw that news report; scared and useless, like his life’s work was all for nothing.

“Ray,” rasps Kowalski. He doesn’t get a response from him. He clears his throat. “Ray. I know we can’t change what happened, but we can at least tell people what’s really going on. Soon, Chicago might not be the only city that’s hit with something like this. But we’re not powerless here. You and I can stop this before it’s too late. That’s why we’re on the road, remember?”

“What if I just end up being dead weight?”

“Don’t give me that ‘dead weight’ bullshit. We’re in this together, you and I. You know things that I don’t and I can do things that you can’t. We both work better in twos, don’t we?” Kowalski looks up at the Fraser keychain before focusing on his partner again. “We’ve got this, Vecchio.”

Vecchio gulps, still looking ahead. “Thanks, Kowalski.”

Kowalski nudges his arm. “You’re not alone here. Don’t forget that.”

“Alright, MJ,” replies Vecchio with a scoff.

“Hey, don’t make me burst into song.”

“Yeah, no, I really don’t want to hear you croak ballads, neither.”

“Fuck you.”

“Right back at ya. Come on, gimme a nugget already.”

Kowalski hands him the whole box, ketchup and all, while he digs into his fries.

“You’re alright, Kowalski. Not just the food—”

“I know. Shut up and eat.” The blond smiles at him before gazing at the lake, its ripples faintly gleaming in the moonlight.

A few hours after getting back on the I-94, they stop at a roadside motel to rest. After cleaning themselves up and chatting about aliens (“I’m telling you, ‘Humanoid Organisms’ means they had aliens in mind, too!” “Aliens don’t exist, Kowalski. They just added the ‘o’ because saying the name without it makes it sound like you’re passing a kidney stone.”), Kowalski goes to sleep. Vecchio takes out an opaque, unmarked flask of whiskey and sips from it while looking out the window. He thinks he sees his phantom father from the corner of his eye, but shakes off the feeling. Vecchio then reminds himself that he’ll have to wake Kowalski up as soon as he does; they’re no doubt being chased by authorities for what they did back home. They’ll have to leave for Superior first thing in the morning, even if he has to drive for Kowalski.

He slips the container back into his discarded jacket and heads to his own bed. It takes him a while to get used to Kowalski’s chainsaw snoring before he can get some shuteye. Sure enough, Vecchio ends up in the driver’s seat later in the day, thanks to Kowalski having another nightmare. Even though he had a nightmare of his own, he wasn’t in the mood to hear Kowalski bitch about having to drive on a lack of sleep.

* * *

The Rays stop at an isolated gas station not too far from their next checkpoint. Vecchio shakes Kowalski awake, the latter mumbling in displeasure.

“Gas tank’s running low. Fill it up,” commands Vecchio.

“Come on, man, why me? I’m not the one who’s awake.”

“Before we left Chicago, you told me that you’re the only one who can touch the GTO unless you’re too tired to drive. You never said anything about gas.”

Kowalski sneers at Vecchio for about five seconds. “You son of a bitch. Don’t think for a second that I’m going in there without buying some M&Ms, because I will and I’m not giving you a single one.”

Vecchio scoffs and watches him head outside. He turns the radio on and reads Kowalski’s notepad while waiting for him. He sees his dad in the rearview mirror.

“You’re wasting your time with this ‘save the world’ crap, son.”

“Oh, good. The devil on my shoulder’s back for more.”

* * *

Kowalski enters the station’s convenience store and is met with a quintet of apathetic teens; two of them are making out in the back, one is sitting on the counter playing video games, one is asleep behind said counter and one more is eating chips from the shelves. Kowalski’s not scared of them; he knows there’s no reason to. He often deals with youth like these five at work and has been able to handle his own when things went south with them. He makes his way towards the resting clerk, who’s kicked awake by his gamer friend.

“God, what the fuck do you—” The clerk notices Kowalski standing in front of him. “Oh, hi! How can I help you?”

The clerk’s friends laugh at him, making him blush while he strains to keep that service with a smile attitude in check.

“See, no one usually shows up here,” explains the girl who was making out with her boyfriend earlier. “You’re the first customer we’ve had in, like, four hours.” She then gets back to business.

Kowalski glances at the couple. “…Okay. Thanks for that fact.”

“Jesus, Jordan, just ask him how much he wants to pay for gas,” whines the kid with the chips. The clerk simply nods, still trying to smile.

The detective hands Jordan thirty-five dollars before going to pump his jet black sweetheart to capacity. Vecchio holds back from letting out a single peep; he lets loose on his ghost dad when he sees Kowalski go back indoors.

The blond browses the shelves for snacks, but not without getting into a staring contest with Chips Boy now and again.

“Hey, Spikes!”

Kowalski turns around and sees the gamer kid walking towards him with a smile.

“You’re not from around here, aren’t you?”

“Nice catch, Sherlock.”

“Hey, I was just gonna tell you that you’re gonna have to watch your back if you’re going to Superior or Duluth. There’s a serial killer on the loose, you know.”

Kowalski bites his lip as he takes the candies he wants.

“The Twin Ports Killer, we call him. What this guy does is that he traps drivers like you on the road before he knocks them out.”

Kowalski walks past the gamer and to the counter, but the teen doesn’t relent.

“We don’t know what happens to his victims when he nets them,” continues the young man while grabbing Kowalski’s arm. “We don’t even know what he looks like, but rumor has it that at his barn, there are cars without plates, neglected pigs and teeth all over the goddamn place! Man, can you believe— Whoa, watch it!”

The detective shakes the kid off and dashes to his ride without paying for his treats. He opens the car door and slams it behind him, his partner somehow not noticing him.

“We’re outta here,” declares Kowalski.

“I told you already, I’m done living that kind of life!” Vecchio yells at the top of his lungs to the front mirror.

“Come on, Vecchio, let’s go!”

“So if you’re here to nudge me back into the dark side, you’re the one wasting your time here, not me!”

Kowalski elbows him hard in the ribs. “I said floor it, shit-for-brains!”

Before he knows it, Vecchio smashes the accelerator and they zoom into the road. He hisses from the pain while staring at the path ahead of him.

“What the hell is your problem!?”

“You’re one to talk! Who were you yelling at back there, you psycho?”

Vecchio doesn’t answer him right away, hoping that the music on the radio can soothe them both. When he does enter Superior, however, after quietly passing by docks, pubs and factories as far as the eye can see, he finally gives Kowalski a bit of his attention.

“I was talking to Fraser.”

Kowalski snaps out of his daydream. “What?”

“Earlier. You know, when we were at the gas station? I was talking to Fraser,” states Vecchio before pointing to the keychain.

“Figures why you sounded so pissed back there. He’s actually one of the reasons why I came back home.”

Vecchio mentally kicks himself in the head for coming up with that lie. Easy target, but loads of collateral damage. He sticks to it anyway.

“Look, it’s not like I hate the guy or anything. I mean, he’s my best friend, for God’s sake.”

“No, no, I get that,” replies Kowalski. “I feel that way, too. He’s weird, but he fucks me up in the best and worst ways imaginable, if that makes sense.”

“Makes more sense than anything you’ve told me in the last few days.” Vecchio picks up Kowalski’s “fuck you” vibes and smiles to himself. “It’s impossible to hate the guy, no matter how hard you try. Almost makes you wonder why you still bother to fight it, right?”

“Yeah.” Kowalski bites into an Oh Henry bar and immediately grimaces, forgetting that he hates peanuts. “Here, take this. I couldn’t find any M&Ms without those shitty almonds in them and I took this by mistake.”

“I’m driving, genius. How do you expect me to do that?” As Vecchio says this, he enters a busy bridge and a new song starts to play on the radio, its brief piano intro shifting into a sultry pop song.

“I didn’t steal this thing for nothing. C’mon, eat it. You’ll need energy so you can drive longer.”

“Jesus, Stanley, don’t talk while you’re eating. It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting. And what do you mean, ‘I didn’t stea—’ Mm!”

Kowalski shoves the chocolate bar into Vecchio’s mouth, causing him to briefly veer off into the other lane. The blond grabs the map with his other hand and opens it so he can further guide his friend.

“You’re doing great, baby. Just like that. Keep going,” he says as he sends the bar a little deeper down Vecchio’s throat. The latter grunts in frustration, his blush not in the least subtle.

“I’m talking about the directions here, sicko. Do I look like Stella with a strap-on to you?”

And that’s when the Rays switch places. Kowalski unbuckles his seatbelt and crawls to the beat of the music over a choking Vecchio’s lap in the middle of traffic while Vecchio scrambles to get into the shotgun seat. He grabs Kowalski’s bottle of water and drinks from it, sighing from the relief.

Kowalski snickers at him. “You don’t mind drinking that? My spit’s on that thing, neat freak.”

Vecchio takes the map from Kowalski. “You say that like it’s the only thing we’ve shared.” He notices his partner’s knuckles tense up on the wheel. “Relax. I’d never call Stella and Fraser ‘things’. I’m talking about stuff like—”

“Your life?”

“…I was thinking of something like a mutual and needlessly complex dislike for one another, but that works, too. Thanks for reminding me about that.”

The blond gracelessly yawns. “Stop being so bitchy all the time, killjoy. This is a road trip. Enjoy what you can of it.”

Kowalski and Vecchio spend about forty-five minutes in traffic before they cross the bridge to Duluth, which ends up being an urbanized version of the city they just left. To make matters worse, their ride comes to a standstill some time after leaving the Twin Ports.


	9. Chapter 9

Kowalski punches the wheel. “Fuck! God fucking dammit!” Just like he and Vecchio’s journey, his litany of swears seems to have no end in sight.

Vecchio knows he would have reacted the same way if his Riv were to wind up with popped tires, so he doesn’t say anything. He gets out of the noisy car to survey the damage.

Punctured tires, to be exact. Vecchio sees a strip of nails behind them and groans. He then feels a strong hand cup his shoulder and shudders; he knows for a fact that’s not Kowalski’s hand. The hand’s owner crouches next to Vecchio.

“If it makes you feel any better, these things are a dime a dozen around here. You’re definitely not the first outsider to fall for something like that, my friend.”

Vecchio looks to his left and sees a woman with an athletic build smirking at him, her platinum blonde bob topped with a polka-dot headband and her fair neck adorned by a spiked leather collar. The aesthetic contrast throws him in for a loop.

“I, uh… Who are you?”

“The one who’s gonna get you and your crabby friend out of this mess.”

“Got a shorter name?” asks Vecchio, getting up.

The woman motions for him to follow her. “Kay’s fine with me. What’s yours?”

“Ray.” Vecchio smiles to himself. “Huh. Ray and Kay. I like the sound of that.”

“Put a leash on it, chrome dome,” she orders. “C’mon, let’s see if there’s anything in my pickup that can get you out of this pickle.”

Vecchio passes a hand over his head; far from bald, but not a full head of hair, neither. “Jerk,” he mutters to himself before catching up with Kay. Quickly looking behind him, he realizes might just have a thing for people like her. Kay’s a pretty girl and he sure as hell isn’t gonna deny it.

Kowalski watches Vecchio and a loudly dressed blonde chat by her car, picking up pieces of their conversation. Hearing them exchange playful innuendo instead of tending to the love of his life only makes him more furious. A monster bug is this close to breaking out of Illinois if it hasn’t already and Vecchio’s out there trying to hook up with some rockabilly, punk rock pin-up come to life. What kind of girl would hook up with a balding stranger who’s pushing forty? It has to be a trap; if she doesn’t kill Vecchio, he will. He feels sick to his stomach as he sees them about to kiss.

And that’s when it dawns on him. What he’s seeing, what he’s heard, where they are. He looks closer and sees a tire iron in one of her hands. Kowalski lets out a mix of a gasp and a grunt before unbuckling his seatbelt, leaving the car, grabbing his gun as fast as he can.

“Ray, no! Get back in the car!” Kowalski tries to deactivate the safety while he runs towards them.

“Stan, what the—”

Vecchio goes down with a clang and a thud. Kowalski doesn’t have time to pull the trigger long enough and takes a blow to the skull. He sees Kay waving to him as his vision goes to black.

* * *

Kowalski is woken up by beads of sweat trickling down his eyelids. If not for the orange beams faintly illuminating where he is, Kowalski would believe that he’s still unconscious. He tries to move, but his arms are restrained above his head. By the rough feel of the material, he concludes that it’s rope.

“Vecchio!” he whispers. “Vecchio, where are you?”

The detective doesn’t get an answer; only labored, non-human snorts and the shuffling of hay. He maneuvers his bare feet around the open space and nearly impales them on small, hard, jagged objects. His heart beats faster when he realizes what they are. He knows where he is.

“If you’re here, wake up! Please… Please wake up…”

Kowalski’s about to die at the hands of the Twin Ports Killer. And if Vecchio’s already gone, he’s going to die alone. He shuts his eyes, waiting for the Grim Reaper’s pestilent swine to consume what little flesh he has on his bare chested frame.

* * *

“Kowalski! Hey, Kowalski!”

The blond comes back to his senses once again and is overcome with a painful hunger.

“V…Vec…?”

“That’s me,” hushes Vecchio, who’s a little further away from earshot. “Over here, to your left.”

Kowalski’s eyes start to sting when he makes out his silhouette, his already hazy vision blurring up some more. “You’re alive! Oh God, you’re alive…”

“I should be the one telling you that. I think the sun came up about three times before you woke up.”

Kowalski’s relief gives way to anger, in spite of his weakened condition. “You’re a real dumbass, you know that!? Who told you to trust strangers in the middle of nowhere? You—”

Vecchio takes advantage of Kowalski’s coughing fit to get a word in edgewise. “What, did you want us to stay in your busted mechanical soulmate all day? I’ve had my fair share of pushing cars and I sure as hell wasn’t about to do that all the way to Podunk, Minnesota!”

Kowalski gasps for breath before fighting back. “Going to Warroad was your idea, remember? You said ‘Oh, Thunder Bay is too obvious of a checkpoint! The Coast Guard’s gonna corner our asses there for sure!’ As if we weren’t already being fucking followed from the start! God, you and your limp dick. It’s always about what your id wants, isn’t it?”

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not that kind of guy anymore! And how do you even know what the id is?” Vecchio tries to gesticulate, but his hands are also tied above his head.

“Frannie went through a Freudian literature phase a few years ago,” points out Kowalski, no longer straining to yell. “I picked up a few concepts from her.”

“Did she? I can see that.” Vecchio calms down, too.

The Rays awkwardly stare at the barn door, the sole audible sounds being their breathing and some oinks.

“You know, I feel like this is some kind of karmic punishment,” begins Vecchio.

“What for?”

“I had someone go through the same thing back in Vegas,” confesses Vecchio with a gulp. “The guy was shining my shoes and chipped some of the leather from rubbing them too hard. I then remembered that a couple of files I read on mob bosses mentioned them using pigs for execution and clean-up. One night later to the hour, my boys brought me back a Ziploc bag full of teeth. They told me that’s all that was left of him.”

Kowalski notices that his own fingers curled up as Vecchio was telling him his story. “How’d that make you feel?”

The barn door swings wide open, the sunlight making them yelp in pain. Vecchio squints and sees Kay skipping inside, her red and white dress fluttering with each step.

“Rise and shine, boys!”

She finishes up with a flourish; the boys notice a biker gang’s logo on the back of her denim jacket as she does so. She flashes them a shimmering grin before pulling out a pump-action shotgun that was hidden in a nearby haystack.  
  
“You both did well. Usually, no one makes it this far in the prelims.”

Kowalski glares at Kay. “What are you talking about?”

“You see, Hedgehog Boy, it’s time for my little show to begin.” She points the muzzle at her mouth like a microphone.

“Hope you forgot how trigger discipline works,” grumbles Kowalski.

“Welcome to the Hog House! As always, I’m your host, Kay Stack.”

Vecchio’s eyes widen. “Holy shit, she’s nuts.”

“Today, we have two visitors from the Prairie State: Illinois! Everyone, give it up for Ray and his hedgehog friend!”

Kay receives two oinks from the audience and a cough from Kowalski. She raises an eyebrow and clears her throat.

“Hey, punk Rizzo,” mocks Kowalski. “Shouldn’t you be at some snow-white diner in 50s Oklahoma? Or is the East Village club you crawled out of easier for you to get to?”

Kay cocks her gun. “We could always end this game early, you know.”

“Depends. How do you play?”

Kowalski watches Kay walk in his direction and winces when she pushes her weapon against Vecchio’s temple. The latter tries to maintain a poker face.

“It’s a quiz show. For every right answer, you get to eat some oats like the pig you are. If you get one wrong, I’ll hurt you. If you sass me again, I’ll hurt him. If you get three questions right in a row, I’ll let you go and Ray will be safe here with me. If you get three wrong in a row, I’ll feed Ray to my little friends and lock you in your trunk until you die from heat exhaustion.”

“Why won’t you feed me to your hogs if I lose?”

“You can’t make a pig eat bacon, silly! That’s wrong.”

“Yeah, I can totally trust your judgment on what’s right and what’s wrong.”

Vecchio looks into Kowalski’s eyes. “I’m begging you, Stanley. Keep your big mouth in check and don’t fuck this up.”

“Got it,” solemnly responds Kowalski to his plea and her rules.

Kay steps away from them and cracks her neck. “Alright, let’s start with an easy one! Who were the Chicago Cubs pitted against when 7/16 happened?”

Kowalski’s empty stomach lurches when he hears those words, but he gives her a smug smile anyway. “The Montreal Expos. You didn’t think I was gonna fib, did you?”

“Of course not. That’s why I said it was easy, you dolt. Here, catch.”

The detective blushes when he opens his mouth to capture the oats. He takes a quick look at Vecchio and is relieved when he doesn’t see a single trace of amusement on his face.

Kay shudders before asking her next question. “Let’s say that you’ve been raised alone by your dad for as long as you can remember. He used to be a biker, but let it go so he could dedicate himself to you and not get in trouble with the cops anymore. One day, out of nowhere, the cops burst into your place and kill him right in front of you as you were watching TV together. Is that okay? Was that the right thing to do?”

Vecchio and Kowalski observe her in silence, her leg twitching as she grips her shotgun tighter.

“Well, Detective? Should they have done that?”

“No, that’s disgusting!”

Kay tosses the gun aside, accidentally injuring one of her pigs in the process. “Just like you, you goddamn liar!”

She knees Kowalski in the abdomen, forcing out a gag and a wheeze from him. Vecchio has seen this kind of thing too many times, but still turns away. She takes her gun, leaves the barn and closes the doors behind her, plunging the duo into near darkness once again. Kay doesn’t come back until about an hour later.

Every hour or so, Vecchio witnesses a repeat performance. Kowalski answers an easy question and gets his oats, savoring every last morsel he manages to catch. When a question that’s personal and impossible to answer comes up, he’s beaten in various places and manners; kicks to the chest, jabs to the jaw, barrel scrapes to his arms. But neither he or Kowalski ever scream. Kowalski will squeal, grunt and throw up like the dying pigs surrounding them, but never yell. And as usual, Vecchio won’t make a sound, even when Kowalski’s pain hurts him as if it’s his own. His input doesn’t matter anymore. Here, he’s nothing but some mediocre auction piece; like a used toy being fought over by a brother and his sister.

Kowalski refuses to look at him, even when Vecchio hears him sob in the twilight. Just as Vecchio feared, he’s as useless as he’s ever been. But if Kowalski won’t show him his vulnerability, he won’t show him his, neither, so he stays silent like a good boy. Yes, a good boy, just like Pa wanted him to be when he wasn’t being told to be a real man for once. They’re both dying, but Vecchio feels like yet another part of him already has. He tells himself that he deserves all of this; this is his punishment unfolding.

The show ends when Kowalski goes off-script.

* * *

“You wanna say that again, Detective?” Kay is slurring her words. She looks sleep deprived, as if she’s about to crash from the high that her game show initially gave her.

“That’s. Not. My. Fucking. Problem.” As for Kowalski, it seems like cereal isn’t doing it for him anymore. He’s somehow found the strength to fight back, possibly in the hopes of breaking his imposed diet with more chicken nuggets. “I’m not every cop, alright? I hate that this stuff has to happen and I try my best to be nothing like them, but what some officers did in the middle of buttfuck nowhere isn’t my fault, so get that drilled in your head before I shoot you myself.”

Vecchio shuts his eyes as he feels the ensuing silence crush him, their stares lighting him ablaze. At least Kowalski won’t have to suffer this time around.

He can barely make out his own screams through the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He’s taken bullets before; while those instances were painful, the slug that hits his right arm nearly brings his heartbeat to a standstill. His body doesn’t even register the pain right away. His eyes roll back into his head as he shudders, the deep cries of sickly swine turning his solo into a chorus. He feels one approaching his wounded arm, lapping at the fresh hole burrowed into his flesh. Vecchio loses consciousness when he feels it bite into his gash.


	10. Chapter 10

Kowalski’s heard stories of people performing superhuman feats in the face of danger. He’s even had such moments early on in his career, but it’s been some time since he’s tapped into adrenaline fueled strength that allows him to withdraw his hands from a tight bundle of rope and headbutt someone; all with complete disregard to his injuries.

Kay drops her gun from the impact and nearly falls over, but Kowalski catches her. “You’re insane! Just who the hell are you?”

“No, it’s my turn now to play host.” Kowalski mimics her grin from much earlier. “It’s time for the lightning round, so get ready.”

“Wait!”

Kowalski slowly picks up the shotgun from the ground. “What’s black, rounded and will split your head right open two seconds from now?”

“No, please! Don’t kill me!”

His arms stiffen as he’s millimeters away from striking her with the butt of her own weapon. The blond hears that same voice in his head from much earlier telling him to stop; as if Fraser’s right there with him, restraining him from bludgeoning a mentally ill woman to death.

Kowalski feels himself dropping the gun, turning around and walking towards Vecchio so that he can free him from his bindings. He ties a catatonic Kay up to the same suspending hook that he and his partner were linked to before leaving. He wishes that he could have said something more profound than “I’m sorry, I mean it” on the way out, but knows that whatever he’d have said wouldn’t have been of much value.

The ever persistent heat wave beats down on Kowalski as he looks around the farm for his car, Vecchio’s weight on his back making him feel even weaker. In the distance, he notices several cars parked in proximity to each other. He lets out a shaky exhale before practically limping his way to his baby. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that his dearest GTO wasn’t vandalized like most of the neighboring cars, save for the license plate now being absent; he figures that’s why no one ever came to rescue him and Vecchio before promptly arresting them. Rubbing his eyes, the detective gets to work on the two most important elements of his life at the moment.

* * *

Vecchio comes to his senses when he feels Kowalski’s breath on his arm. Whispered mnemonics and furrowed brows give him goosebumps as he observes the battered blond tend to his wound. Slender, surprisingly meticulous fingers apply gauze on the affected area and wrap one of Vecchio’s ties near the bandage with the aid of his Swiss Army knife. He slowly pulls the tool away when he’s done, giving Vecchio enough time to snap out of his mesmerized state.

“You're not making any style pig jokes, Stan? There's no better time than—”

“Shut up.” Kowalski’s gray-blue eyes shift up to look at Vecchio. “Just shut up, okay?”

Vecchio faintly smiles as he watches him finish his treatment. “You scared?”

“Scared of what?” asks Kowalski, annoyed.

“Scared that I might die from this. I’ve been through worse, you know.”

The detective shushes him before carrying him again, this time to the back seats of the GTO. He grabs a sleeping bag from the boot and gently settles Vecchio inside of it.

“I feel like a caterpillar,” murmurs Vecchio in bliss, which quickly turns into dissatisfaction. “Stupid arm.”

“I’m gonna fix this thing up for a while. Gonna borrow this, too.” Kowalski waves the multitool in the air as he says this; his wrist is red and flaky. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah, sure…”

Vecchio watches a concerned and wounded Kowalski until the latter ducks to work on the car. He tries to move, but the pain in his arm becomes more acute.

“Shit!”

“You can say that again.” His dad reclines on the back of the driver’s seat.

“Oh, goddammit,” groans Vecchio, which quickly garners him a yelled “shut up” from Kowalski. He lowers his voice. “What do you want this time? You here to make fun of me for getting my arm blasted by a basket case? Or did you find it funnier when one of her piggy babies trotted along and gnawed on my bullet hole?”

“Don’t remind me. You were a real wuss back there, you know that? No wonder your dick’s hard for pretty boy over there. I thought you were done falling for guys after you and the Mountie split up.”

Vecchio doesn’t say anything.

“Listen to me. It’s just lust. But if you really feel that way about him, fuck him and forget about him. You don’t need someone like that in your life, especially not some high maintenance street fairy who thinks he can get away with jacking your name.”

“Don’t call him that,” growls Vecchio. “I owe my life to him, so you ought to talk about him with some respect. And I know you don’t wanna hear this, but I’ll say it anyway. I haven’t loved anyone like this since Angie.”

“Doesn’t look like he feels the same way about you, loverboy.”

“You say that like you know how genuine love works.”

_“Vafangool.”_

“Yeah, you too.” Vecchio decides to sleep while waiting for Kowalski to finish up with the car. In spite of the pain he’s in, he’s determined to block out the outside world and rest up in the realm of dreams; a place in which a laughing, shirtless Kowalski is waiting for him on the sands of Lake Superior.

* * *

While the GTO itself wasn’t vandalized, Kowalski discovers that a few of its contents were tampered with, mainly the maps. Some were scribbled over while others have slurs related to his profession and his inferred sexuality scrawled on them. He angrily tosses them out the window before driving off to God knows where.

Even with the license plate removed, he feels that the authorities will still able to locate him and Vecchio if he dawdles around for too long. So he drives around in circles; not only to throw them off, but also because he has no idea where he is. He’s tired, hungry, stressed and lost, but has to get to Warroad at any cost without getting caught. It takes Kowalski a little over a week to get back on track, given that Kay’s farm is in a place that he can’t mentally estimate in terms of distance.

* * *

“Good morning, Aurora! Welcome to the Morning Shake ‘n Stir! Today’s Friday, August 13th. Thank God it’s Friday, but it looks like it’s gonna be a Friday full of tricks and bad luck!”

“And aren’t you already the queen of bad luck, Crystal?”

“Oh, stop it, Scooter! I’m not that clumsy—”

Kowalski blindly slaps the radio before feeling for the volume knob and nearly twisting it off. He rubs his eyes and cracks his neck as he looks at the sun rising over leagues of spruces. His hand slips down his jaw and he feels a solid amount of scruff there, just like when he was trekking up north. His appearance is the last of his worries right now. He crawls to the back of the car for a can of tuna when his knee hits something solid. Kowalski’s eyes widen when he realizes what it is: a leg belonging to his neglected partner.

Vecchio is shivering in his sleeping bag, his lips dry and his breath short. Kowalski presses a hand on the bloody part of the bag; his hand isn’t wet upon its retraction. He maneuvers the bag’s zipper downward and gently drags Vecchio halfway out of it, his sweaty skin making it hard to not further inconvenience him.

It’s safe to say that the man’s arm looks like shit. Red, swollen, hot, pus-leaking shit, which doesn’t actually exist as far as Kowalski’s concerned. Kowalski’s instead more concerned about the fact that he let this happen; that he allowed Vecchio to get a fever and let his infected wounds consume him, practically converting him into a corroding zombie. His heavily stained bandage looks bad and smells even worse.

“Son of a bitch. Vecchio, I…”

The pupil of one of Vecchio’s dilated eyes shifts to the side to briefly face Kowalski before focusing its attention to the backrest.

“I’ll go get some help, okay? Just hang in there. Please, just…”

Kowalski sees a lone pedestrian as he steps out of the car and runs up to him. “Listen, I need to know where the nearest hospital is. My friend’s in critical condition and he’s gonna die if I don’t do anything.”

The stranger tenses up when he realizes who just flagged him down. “You’re…! You’re that guy on TV, the fugitive!”

“Shit,” Kowalski hushes to himself; he and Vecchio have overstayed their welcome at home. He thinks of a plan for how to behave at the hospital while trying to save face. “Listen, I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? Just tell me where to go.”

“There’s a hospital around here along the 110. Now please, please leave me alone!”

Kowalski, frustrated, watches the man run off and nearly trip before he walks back to the car. He puts on some sunglasses and wets his hair with a nearby water bottle prior to following the stranger’s vague instructions.

“I’ve got you, okay? I’m not gonna let you down this time, Vecchio.” Kowalski knows that Vecchio can’t hear him, so he treats his utterance as a promise to himself, repeating it in his mind as he drives to his destination.

* * *

Kowalski’s heart is beating so fast that he might as well puke it out, while Vecchio’s own is pumping at a slug’s pace. At least Vecchio doesn’t have to worry about the sweltering heat and going unnoticed in a public place. Kowalski marches to the visibly worried receptionist as he carries his partner in his arms.

“What happened to—”

“Got his arm blasted by a shotgun, had it eaten out by a pig and now he’s got a staph infection. I don’t know where I am and I feel like shit, but please help him out.” Kowalski doesn’t vomit his heart, but his words. He’d have rather done that instead. The blond sees the receptionist hang up the phone; seems like the man called for help as he went off about he and Vecchio’s strange adventure. Kowalski flinches when he sees scrubs heading in his direction, then calms down when they take Vecchio away from him. He tries his best to look away from the ensuing scene.

“We’ll let you know when he’s feeling better,” assures the secretary. “You can leave your number with us and come back later.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go. Let me stay here,” pleads Kowalski.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, sir,” answers the man at the desk. “Even if we could, the heat wave’s been causing many people to fall sick and stay here. The E.coli scare might come around our state, too, so we need to have as many vacant rooms as we can for potential patients.”

“Okay,” mumbles Kowalski. He turns his back to the receptionist and walks to the exit. “I’ll be outside. Find me when you’re done with him.”

“Sir, wait! You can’t…!”

Kowalski leaves the waiting room and goes to his car in the parking lot, driving it to the farthest space within the outer hospital grounds. He stares ahead at the pines before him, his hands still on the wheel. They begin to tremble as he thinks about what Vecchio must be going through. He wonders if his arm has gotten any worse since his arrival; whether it would warrant a skin graft or even its complete removal. It’s a rural hospital, so things could easily go wrong. Maybe Vecchio’s anesthesia isn’t strong enough and he’s feeling all the pain, or he could even get another infection as his treatment is underway.

The detective clenches his eyes shut as he tries to keep the bile in his body from creeping up. He loses control on his third day in the lot and has to park far away from his mess. His dreams are pitch black, only accompanied by the sounds of crickets. He’ll usually wake up from them shortly after with bees crawling up his sweaty arms. Kowalski lets them have their fun and tries to get more rest, tries to shut down his obsessive thoughts about his partner.

On what he finds out was Friday night after hearing the words “Saturday morning” on the radio, Kowalski was faced with a different insect. A brown moth sat on his thinning wrist and spread its wings, giving him a glimpse of bright pink before fluttering them at a rapid pace. It flew towards his chapped lips and rested on them for a bit before flying out the window and into the treetops. Kowalski weakly smiles at the memory of being kissed by a moth. He’s sure that Fraser would have had something to say about the symbolism of the moment.

Kowalski reaches for the keychain of him, but doubles over in pain. His entire body is crying out, needing to be home, needing to be in a bed and not in the two front seats of his thoroughly abused car because he’s sure that specks of Vecchio’s blood are on one of the back seats. But he himself doesn’t cry out. He knows that every single second of this is worth it. He’s willing to suffer as much as he needs to if it means saving thousands of lives and pulling the sheet off a lethal, decades-old conspiracy. Even if Vecchio doesn’t make it, he’ll do what he can to save everyone. Someone has to and it sure as hell isn’t gonna be a fed.


	11. Chapter 11

“Sir? Sir, wake up.”

“Wide awake,” croaks Kowalski. His lidded eyes fix their sights on the receptionist like a chameleon.

“You can… Come see him now,” he hesitates as he watches the detective crack the bones of his cadaverous body. He backs away when Kowalski lunges out of the car and locks it behind him.

“What? What’s wrong? I’m right behind you.”

“No, no, of course! Follow me.”

Kowalski clumsily tails the secretary, already expecting the worst. At least he can make space for the body bag in the trunk by eating all of the tuna cans there. He notices that in spite of his pained walking, the air around him is cooler and drier. Kowalski welcomes this change with a deep, audible breath. He stops himself from responding to the secretary’s evil eye with both middle fingers. They walk into the hospital, into the quiet hallways and into Vecchio’s room.

The man himself is staring at his hands, oblivious to his visitors. Kowalski carefully approaches Vecchio and lays a hand on his left arm; it feels rubbery. He applies a light pressure to it and it’s firmer than an arm should be. He gulps at the implication.

“I’m sorry. I just… God, Ray, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize yet, Stanley,” mumbles Vecchio. “We’re only getting started.”

Kowalski sits next to him, still holding his arm. “What do you mean?”

“We’re the most wanted fugitives in the country right now.” Vecchio finally looks at him, looks into his eyes. “We’re going to prison after I recover. At least they’ve got the decency to allow me that.”

Kowalski’s hand slips down to Vecchio’s and holds it as they watch two nurses and a doctor solemnly enter the room. Vecchio squeezes his hand before letting it go, now focusing on getting used to his new prosthetic.

“Just let me explain why we’re doing this,” starts the detective.

“You don’t need to,” interrupts the doctor. “We all know that you’re both accomplices to the man behind 7/16.”

“What!? No, we had nothing to do with that! Ray and I are trying to prove that Viral Friday was a cover-up. There’s something bigger than that going on and it’s not Dunleavy’s fault.”

“Shut it, Kowalski,” commands Vecchio.

“No. Listen, the contagion wasn’t that guy’s fault. It was the CPD who did it.”

One of the nurses finally speaks up. “Don’t you work for the CPD?”

“Yeah, but I’m not like them. I didn’t even know that they were working on the attack at first.”

“So how come you know that now?” The other nurse gangs up on him along with her colleagues. “And how can I be sure that you’re not lying to me?”

Vecchio clenches his fists, his left one closing in a clumsy fashion. “Look, just kill them so we can get back on the road.”

Everyone else falls silent and stares at Vecchio in shock. Kowalski snaps out of it and kicks his bed, causing his partner to nearly fall over.

“Jesus! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No, the fuck is wrong with _you?_ They let you get away with that kind of mindset back at the 27th? Kill everyone so the problem goes away?”

“Just do it, Kowalski. You’ll thank me later.”

Kowalski grabs him by his gown and gets in his face. “Fuck off, Langoustini. The real Ray Vecchio wouldn’t say shit like that, so stop it.” He lets go of him when he sees his arms relax.

“You Chicago rats are all like this, aren’t you? Irritable, vulgar people, even the police officers,” whines the doctor.

“Excuse me!?” Kowalski would have taken notice of the chill in his spine from shouting at the same time as Vecchio if it weren’t for his mood.

The secretary chimes in: “Hey, he’s not wrong. Have you heard about the riots there? Look, the authorities claim that they didn’t mean to gas as many people as they did, but I say good riddance of those vermin. We’d never do anything that wild in the Twin Ports, even the Twin Cities for Christ’s sake. To think that even martial law doesn’t work for you animals.”

Kowalski feels his companion tense up again and he subconsciously rubs his arms. “Let us go. Now.”

“I don’t think so,” says the doctor. “What’s stopping me from calling the police right now and having you both arrested?”

“What if told you exactly why the Wrigley attack happened?”

“Stan,” hushes Vecchio.

“You could save a lot of lives with this info, I swear. You’ll have no choice but to let us go.”

Kowalski takes the man’s bemused smile as his green light. He shouldn’t be chuckling anymore after this.

The doctor and his team laughed the whole time anyway, but at least Kowalski and Vecchio are finally back to business. After stopping for gas, they drive to Warroad as fast as they can without being noticed. No music, no talking; just the sounds of the GTO’s engine and the labored breathing of two men with the fates of many on their backs.

* * *

When the duo enters Warroad once and for all, Kowalski sees a sign reading Hockeytown. There’s no doubt in his heart now that he’s now near the border. As he’s reminded of a Blackhawks shirt that he packed for the trip, he looks for an isolated spot where he can park the car.

Vecchio buttons up his shirt; he refused to wear his gown outside of the hospital and didn’t mind slowing himself and Kowalski down just to change clothes. “Another lakefront, Kowalski? I swear, you’ve got a fetish for these things. What, did you lose your virginity near one?”

“Yeah, it’s weird, huh? Almost like half of the planet’s made of water or something.” Without looking at Vecchio, Kowalski gets out of the car and walks to the trunk.

It’s been a while since the weather hasn’t made Kowalski sweat his ass off. It’s a warm evening, but it’s easily better than a hot one. September’s coming soon according to the radio, but he prefers to take the shift in temperature as a sign that he and Vecchio are one big step closer to where they need to be.

Kowalski checks the food supply, the water supply and the tools; save for some expired snacks, everything’s intact. He then profits to change into a new set of clothes after making sure that no one’s looking.

He feels a sudden ache in his stomach. As he clutches it, he realizes that it’s been way too long since he’s eaten. Bottles of water were all that they ever consumed in the last few days. He thinks that Vecchio could use a better meal than what the hospital shoved in his maw; that is, if they even bothered to feed him at all. Kowalski makes his way to the front of the car again.

“Hey, Vecchio, what do you wanna eat—”

The detective sees tears dripping down his partner’s cheeks. Vecchio doesn’t turn around, but instead continues to look ahead at a fixed point that Kowalski doesn’t immediately notice. He gets in and sees that there’s a casino not too far from the lakefront. From the corner of his eye, he sees his partner nursing a dully shining flask.

“Ray.”

Vecchio rips the container from his lips, cutting the upper one in the process. “What, hero?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Must feel good being the only one between us with a shot at redemption. So brave and selfless, smart and determined. Did this because you wanted to show people the truth. Be the savior that everyone in town needs, all with the help of his pathetic shadow with a body count bigger than the list of numbers in his black book. I bet Fraser’s more proud of you than he is of me.”

Kowalski holds Vecchio’s trembling wrist, but the latter drops his flask to the floor, alcohol staining the carpet. His left hand still isn’t used to grasping things yet.

“Dammit, Vecchio!”

“Fuck, man! I can’t do this anymore!” Vecchio’s voice cracks from screaming too hard. “I should be home right now! I should be in therapy! For my arm, for my drinking problem, for every little bit of my fucked up life!”

Kowalski, having no idea what to do, can only watch him cry. He knows that the Ray Vecchio he impersonated for months is finally coming through, but doesn’t want to make a move. He’s sure that guys like him don’t take kindly to being hugged by other men.

“I don’t…” Vecchio spits his lip blood out the window. “I don’t deserve this.”

He gets out of the car and runs away before Kowalski can ask him what he means. He focuses on feeling for his Swiss Army knife instead of letting Kowalski’s honking give him a full-blown migraine.

* * *

Vecchio runs the spine of the knife down his thumb and around the nail before gracelessly sliding it down his only warm arm. He picks at its flesh, almost reveling in the pain it provides him with. After experimentally injuring himself, he studies the limb; a part of him that is undeniably human and alive compared to his other arm. However, Vecchio still feels like he’d be more at home in the earth beneath his back than above it.

“Don’t forget, son: across for attention, down for results. That is, if you can even hold on to that thing without dropping it.”

“I feel like you’re enjoying this more than I am.”

“Of course, I am. You get to pay for failing everyone and I get to stop watching you fuck up over and over again.”

Vecchio stops playing with the knife. _“Everyone?”_

“Yep. You failed me for never becoming a real man and you failed your mother when you left her and your sisters behind. For fuck's sake, you couldn't even protect that Air Force fella. You failed at being a criminal and you failed at being a police officer. You’re only getting weaker and your fairy friend knows it. Even Stella knows you’re nothing compared to her.”

The former detective focuses on the stars above instead of looking at his father.

“And you know what? I don’t blame the Mountie for picking the fairy over you. He’s disgusting, but he’s got conviction. He’s got drive. I don’t like what he does, but I respect that he knows what he’s doing. Makes me wish he was my son instead of you.”

He gets up with a sob-like sound. His eyes hurt, but he feels like he’s run out of tears for this lifetime.

"Let’s go, Dad.”

With his father besides him and a dead man’s knife in his prosthetic hand, Raymond Vecchio marches on deeper into the woods, ready to pay for everything he has and hasn’t done. He thinks he hears Kowalski screaming in the distance, but walks onward nevertheless. The finality of it all sets his nerves on edge, but the world’s still going to end in five months. Better now than later. The last glint of light he sees reflects off his crucifix. Curious, he holds it with his organic hand.

“You ready for your penance, son?”

Vecchio stops in his tracks and looks up at the sky through dark leaves. He didn’t expect the cycle to end this early, but here he is, ready to close it before destiny does it for him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Vortex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17355881) by [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific)




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